The Ache of Cowardice
by paganpunk2
Summary: A sudden malady leaves Robin wondering if he really does have the guts to fight alongside Batman, or if he's been fooling himself all along. part of the Spark in the Dark series.
1. Chapter 1

"Dick? Are you ready?"

"Huh?" the fourteen year old jerked his head up and turned to look at Bruce, clad in all of his Batman gear except his cowl. "Oh. Yeah, I'm ready." Putting his own mask on, he rose from where he'd been sitting cross-legged at one of the computers, studying for a chemistry exam. As his feet hit the floor lightly, a ring of pain tightened around his navel. He gasped slightly, drawing his guardian's attention.

"Robin?" The teen opened his mouth to explain what had just happened, but realized that Bruce was finish dressing and had gone, leaving Batman in his place. If alerted to the problem, Bruce would have stopped everything, asking him questions and testing the affected area personally; Batman, on the other hand, would leave him behind for the night, telling him to change back into regular clothes and have Alfred check him over. A thorough medical examination and an early bedtime weren't things he was all that interested in doing, so he ground his teeth and waved the question away.

"I'm fine. Just…indigestion, or something. It's gone now." It wasn't entirely a lie, as the pain _had_ lessened once he'd straightened up. He'd been having these same little spasms since shortly after breakfast, and they'd been growing progressively worse all day. Between their unusually spicy dinner – Alfred never made curry, but had felt a strange urge to cook Indian food that evening – and all of the sit-ups that had been tacked onto his training the last few days, Dick figured that the pain was probably just a normal reaction. It certainly wasn't bad enough to make him give up a night of patrol at Batman's side.

"…Then let's go."

A few hours later he was regretting his decision to not stay home. The duo had stopped two robberies and a mugging early on, and each bout of exertion had elevated the urgency of his stomach pangs. They had reached the quiet part of the night now, the brief break when most of the petty crooks had completed any mission they had but before the witching hour when the truly sick and twisted preferred to operate. He was surprised that he'd been allowed to stay out this late, even on a Saturday night; Batman normally insisted on returning him to the cave before the most dangerous opponents were likely to be moving about. Happy as he was about his extended curfew, Robin was even more grateful that Batman had chosen a spot where they could crouch down and observe a single block rather than insisting that they check on multiple locations. Even if something were to occur right below them, the teen wasn't sure he'd be able to stand straight enough to address it; having his legs folded beneath him helped dull the ache somewhat, but it was still very much present.

"Robin."

"Yes, Batman?"

"Do you know why we're here tonight?"

"…No. I don't."

"Do you see this building across from us?"

"Of course." _It's a building,_ he thought archly, his discomfort souring his normally good mood. _Kind of hard to miss._

"That is the records depository of one of the largest credit card companies in the country. Tonight, a group of men are planning to break into the digital archives and steal the personal financial information of several million individuals."

"…I didn't think we really worked with white-collar crimes," Robin frowned. "Besides, why do they need to break in to steal digital information? It would be safer to just hack the system."

"Normally I would agree with you. After the last time that happened to this particular company, however, they did a complete security overhaul and switched to a strictly internal network. There's no internet service in that entire building – it was specifically designed to block wireless signals, and there's no line service whatsoever – and their computers are linked only to one another. They update their system once a month, and that information is hand-delivered on an external hard drive. The people who work in there during the day are required to turn in their mobiles, notebooks, and all other electronics at the entrance. They have a call center, but the only people who know the number are the customer service representatives stationed at other locations. There's a code book that changes daily and has to be referenced correctly before the archive staff can give out the requested information." He paused to let that sink in. "As to why we're concerned about a white-collar crime tonight, there is reason for me to believe that the people involved are connected to the Pezzoli syndicate. With the level of spending power they'd garner from a successful expedition of this sort, their goal of taking over Gotham for themselves will be far more attainable."

"…Aren't there any guards inside?" he asked, working very hard to resist the need to wrap his arms around his waist. The pain was migrating now, moving from around his navel to his lower right side, and it was becoming harder to ignore with each passing minute.

"There are, but they won't be difficult to overcome. They aren't very well trained, if my information on the security company they're employed by is to be believed."

"You mean this credit card company went through all of the trouble and expense of making their building as digitally secure as possible, and then filled it with crappy guards?"

"People often put too much faith into their machinery, Robin. The things that modern technology can do are so far beyond the conscious abilities of the average human's brain that it can be difficult to believe that machinery protections, especially on this scale, could ever fail. Keep that in mind."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," Robin muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "Just…something Arthur C. Clarke wrote. You made me think of it."

Batman glanced over at him. It caught him off guard sometimes just how intelligent his young partner was. The boy had been fascinated by science fiction, especially the classic sci-fi writers of the mid-20th century, for the past six months or so. What pleased his mentor was that he seemed to grasp a great deal of the principles behind the stories without expending much effort, and he wasn't afraid to ask for elucidation or head for reliable websites when he sensed that he didn't fully understand a concept. The black-clad man wondered briefly if he had ever given Alfred similar startling glimpses of aptitude when he was growing up.

"There," he breathed, returning his eyes to the street below just in time to see a dark blue van pull around to the rear of the building. "Right on time."

Robin managed to get to his feet, driving the knife deeper into his side as a result. He bit his lip viciously to contain the scream that wanted to be let free, and a wash of blood slid over his tongue. Moving silently in spite of the fact that he was still trying to curl into the fetal position, he stayed behind the taller crime fighter as they swung down to the ground. Once there, he knew he had to stand, and wrenched himself into an upright position just as Batman looked back to verify that he was prepared. Pressing a second set of punctures into existence beside the ones that already had him tasting copper, he nodded once, insisting without words that he was ready and able.


	2. Chapter 2

The thieves were fast, as evidenced by the fact that they had already bypassed the coded entry on the back door and dispatched the few guards in their way. The first few dozen meters of hallway were pitch black, forcing Batman to pause to let his eyes readjust once they reached a lighted corridor. He bent down and whispered into his partner's ear. "You go right. The room they need is on this level, but all the blueprints I was able to find only show the exterior structure, so I don't know exactly where they headed." It was typical, he thought as he turned left and had to step over an unconscious guard; people always assumed that enough walls and panic alarms would be sufficient, and never thought about the quality of people that they hired to man those defenses. It was really a miracle that crimes of this sort didn't occur more frequently.

Once he knew Batman was out of sight, Robin doubled over again, clutching his stomach. He didn't have time to stop – even now their quarry might be past the computer security systems, if the quick work they'd done on the door was any clue as to how well planned this raid had been – but his body didn't give him a choice. Several seconds ticked by before he was able to continue in the direction Batman had ordered him to go. His legs propelled him forward, but he stayed bent, his figure held at a ninety degree angle as if he intended to head butt anyone he encountered. When he reached the corner he stilled again, glancing into the next section and trying to catch his breath without panting. It was no use. They hadn't even engaged the enemy yet and he was already out of air, in pain, and exhausted; the realization made him want to sob at his own ineffectiveness.

He _had_ to get up. He could imagine just as well as Batman what would happen on the streets of Gotham if the Pezzolis had access to the kind of massive bankroll they were trying to obtain, and it would be very, very ugly. Steeling himself with his determination to not let Batman down tonight, he ignored the fact that it felt like he was tearing himself in half and forced himself to stand erect, plastering his back against the wall and holding there to recover. A few seconds later, focusing on breathing deeply and on his resolve to be at his partner's side when these crooks went down, he started along the next passageway.

The route curved back towards the middle of the building, and it was as he rounded a bend that he found what he was looking for. An open door and low murmurs cued him that the work was still in progress. They hadn't left anyone outside the room to watch their backs, no doubt believing that they would be home free once they were past the guards. Sneaking up until he was just outside the square of brightness falling into the dim hall, he listened, trying to figure out how many he had to tackle.

"These codes aren't working," a deep, angry voice rolled.

"They should," another male insisted. He sounded scared, and Robin wondered if the thieves had taken a prisoner. "They change them at three a.m. It's only just after two now, there shouldn't be a problem."

"Well, they aren't working."

"Fuck!" a third person, this one sounding like a woman, swore. The eavesdropping teen flinched, his mind automatically imagining what Alfred's response would be if such an expletive were to come from _his_ lips.

"…Corbin." A third masculine tone spoke the single word.

"What?" the first man snapped back, fingers pounding a keyboard in rage as password after password failed.

"This calendar says it's Daylight Savings Time today."

The clatter of abused keys stopped at that.

"…So what's that got to do with anything?" the woman demanded.

"Motherfucker," Corbin growled. "Mother_fucker_!" Robin slid a few inches away from the door as something was overturned in the room. "Daylight Savings Time? How did we miss that?"

"Oh, Jesus, don't kill me." Now Robin was certain that one of the men was being held against his will.

"I still don't get why it matters," said the female.

"Daylight Savings Time occurs twice a year," the last male voice, still as calm as when it had first spoken, explained. "Once in fall, and again in spring. In fall, the clocks are set back one hour. In the spring – today, in fact – they are moved forward one hour. Unfortunately, this change officially occurs at 2 AM."

"Okay, so…?" _Wow, she is really not all that bright,_ Robin thought, one hand crawling over his stomach unbidden in order to cup the area of his torso that hurt the worst.

"We came in at 2 AM because the daily codes are changed in the system at 3 AM. But the computers recognized the time change, moved their clocks forward, and then automatically initiated the code switch. By the time we got in the door, it was already too late. The codes we have are no good; so far as the computer cares, it's tomorrow."

"…Are you shitting me?" she asked.

"No. I'm not."

"Please, please don't kill me, I didn't know…"

"Shut up!" the woman barked. "Corbin, what do we-"

"Tie that asshole up," he replied. The sounds of struggle and more begging reached Robin's ears as the hostage was bound. "You're going to explain this whole thing to Mr. Pezzoli. Maybe that way he'll at least let _us_ live. You, though, I don't think he's going to be so kind to you, especially once you explain why he isn't nine hundred million dollars richer than he was this morning."

The man this was addressed to groaned miserably. Robin thought about rushing in and getting things started, but Batman's voice in the back of his mind stopped him. _Wait. Wait until the correct moment presents itself, and then strike. _

His stomach clenched again, and he stomped his foot to distract himself from the searing agony. As the echo faded down the hall, he realized what he'd done. _Well,_ he shrugged mentally, _I guess sometimes you have to make your own correct moment._

As footsteps approached the door, he just hoped it wasn't the 'correct moment' for him to die.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I realized that chapter 2 was kind of short, so I decided to post the next part today too. Happy reading!**

The twisting in his abdomen faded into the background as he listened to his first target approach. _He's limping on his right leg,_ he determined from the sound of an unsteady gait. _Maybe one of the guards managed to tag him. That should help make this a little easier._ As soon as the questionable leg appeared, he leapt, aiming for the knee.

The crunch and howl that resulted from his foot's connection with the joint assured him that he'd hit exactly what he wanted. A quick, well-placed tap to the back of the big man's head as he fell to the floor ensured that he wouldn't interfere for the remainder of the fight. He reached to his belt, intending to toss a load of knockout gas into the room, but halted when an unimpressed-sounding male voice called out.

"If you throw anything in here or attempt to enter the room, this man dies."

Robin rolled his eyes. _Of course. You would threaten the prisoner. It's been that kind of a day._ "Well, what do you want, then?" he called back. He didn't like the idea of negotiating, but he liked the idea of a dead hostage even less.

"Ooh, I think I know who it is, Chase!" the woman announced. "Is that a precious little Robin out there in the hallway?"

"If it is, you know Batman isn't far behind," Chase reminded her.

"That's okay, so long as I get a little quality time in before he arrives. I've been wanting to get my hands on this fledgling for a long time." She stepped over her fallen comrade and emerged from the room, hair falling over her barely-concealed cleavage. Robin gulped heavily as he took in the way leather and satin hugged every curve. The kind of body he'd only ever seen Photoshopped imitations of was less than three feet from him, hips swinging. If he reached out and stretched a little, he'd be able to touch her. "Hmm," she smiled, allowing just a hint of tongue to show between her teeth. "You're even prettier in person, baby doll." She breathed jasmine-tinged air into his face and leaned forward, licking her lips as she ran one finger down his cheek and onto his chest. "You know what I want, jailbait? I want the same damn thing that you do."

_This isn't happening,_ the teen decided, wondering when he would wake up. _But, at least now I know why they keep her around._

Her hand pressed him back against the wall, nails digging into him through his costume. Every second, every exhalation that danced across his slack mouth, every fluttering blink made it more and more difficult for him to control himself. He was almost out of fight when she reached down to grab his waist and pull him against her. Luckily for Robin, her thumb dug into the exact spot on his side that had been emanating the loudest distress signals before his brain had been overrun by pheromones.

He cried out at the sudden explosion in his stomach and shoved her away, tears leaping to his eyes. The spell broken, he knocked her out with a single blow to her jaw, then caught her and lowered her gently to the floor, a confusion of chemicals forcing him to act chivalrously despite knowing that she had probably had every intention of killing him. Once he had leaned down to tie her hands and feet, he found that he couldn't get back up. Glancing up and down the hallway that now contained two unconscious bodies, he desperately wished that Batman would hurry the hell up.

"…Are you done yet?" came the voice of the last thief a moment later. "I heard him scream just now, you know. You probably made that little virgin's wildest fantasy come true. Did you even get his pants off before he came? I hope you're proud of yourself," he added, sounding a little disgusted.

In the hallway, Robin steamed. He wanted to call back a challenge, to invite the jerk to come out and get rocked to sleep with a fist, but he was still gasping and bent double over where the woman had pressed. Plus, there was no way of knowing what the last man might do to the hostage if he was made aware that not one but both of his cohorts were out of commission. Trying to breathe deeply, he waited, watching the doorway in his peripheral vision as his hand crept down towards his belt for a second time.

"Monica, what the he-" He didn't get to finish the sentence as one of Robin's modified batarangs hit him square in the face, breaking his nose. He fell to his knees and screamed until the teen stumbled over and knocked him out.

Once the last thief was down, he cast another long look down the hallway in each direction. "Where _are_ you, Bats?" he murmured, concern beginning to grow beside intense pain in his stomach. He thought about calling him on the radio, but he didn't want to distract him if he'd run into difficulties of his own, especially since he had the situation here under control. As several minutes slipped past without the other crime fighter appearing and Robin realized that he was going to have to free the hostage, finish restraining the criminals, and then go searching for his mentor, he groaned. At least, he reflected, he didn't have school in the morning. If this had been a Sunday night, he probably wouldn't even have had time to nap before he had to get ready for a day of classes.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, dragging himself into the room where the hostage still lay, bound hand and foot with a rudimentary gag in his mouth. Cutting the man's bindings, he shuffled backwards and let him get up. "What happened? You're one of the guards for this place, right?" he tacked on, seeing that his uniform matched those on the bodies he'd stepped over earlier.

There was no answer. The guard just stood, shifting back and forth warily and watching him.

"…Everything okay, there?" Robin asked again, growing uncertain himself at the man's strange behavior. He started to push himself laboriously straight, just in case the guy tried anything stupid, and nearly fainted as a new paroxysm gripped him. His teeth buried themselves in his already abused lip as he grabbed a chair to keep from falling over. Closing his eyes for just an instant, he focused on easing the demon in his stomach before it ate him alive.

The guard saw his opportunity and took it, snatching up one of the broken table legs and swinging it with all his might. He felt his weapon connect, hard, with the teen's side, and judged from the scream that followed that he had bought himself enough time to escape. Still clutching the makeshift cudgel, the man bolted.

Squirming on the floor, Robin felt as if someone had sliced him open and was pouring heaps of salt into his guts. The edges of his vision started to darken, and he knew that he wasn't going to be able to keep from passing out. He reached for the button that would transmit his distress signal to Batman, but his hands went lax before he could press it, and the room faded away.


	4. Chapter 4

Batman jerked his head around as a much too familiar scream reached his ears. "Stay here and wait for the police," he instructed the two guards he had found holed up in the security office. He had been trying to get them to tell him where the thieves had gone after breaking in, but neither of them had seen, having fled after it became clear that the intruders were killing everyone in their path. They had been of no use to him, so shaken that they couldn't even tell him where he might find a map of the building.

The cry that had come through his cowl radio told him that his partner had engaged their quarry and was having difficulties. The problem now, with no idea of the internal structure of the place, was finding him. The dark figure flew through passage after passage, searching and becoming further frustrated at every dead end. "I'm coming, Robin. I just have to find you," he muttered as he followed a curving wall. "This place is a labyrinth."

A small pile of unconscious bodies alerted him that he'd found the right place at last. His concern overpowered caution and he rushed through the open door, not caring whether there might be others inside who were in better shape to fight than the trio in the hall. Glancing around, he found the chamber deserted except for the dark-haired teen curled around himself on the floor. His relief was palpable when he drew near and could see that he was breathing. _He must have turned his head just enough to activate his radio as he fell, _he thought._ I doubt that he __meant__ to deafen me._ Mindful of potential unseen injuries, he turned him over, hissing angrily when he saw the thin line of blood that trailed from the corner of his mouth. _Internal bleeding,_ he assumed. _Those bastards. No wonder he screamed like he did. _"Robin," he spoke aloud. He wanted to shake him, wanted to do whatever it took to wake him up, but there was too much risk of worsening whatever damage had him spitting up blood. "Robin, please," he asked, a tiny note of desperation creeping into his voice when several repetitions of his name had no impact.

Out in the hall, one of the thieves flailed vaguely, coming back up to consciousness. With a regretful glance downwards, Batman stepped away and moved to attend to the mess in the corridor. He bound the two men tightly, found Robin's tying of the woman to be satisfactory, and placed them against the wall, not wanting to risk stumbling over them if he had to carry his partner out. 

"Oooooww…"

He returned to the bright heap on the linoleum, touching his shoulder gently. "Robin. Say something."

"…Bats?" His eyes flickered open, staring upwards blankly for one terrifying second before he focused. Sighing, he checked in with himself and discovered that the pain in his side, while still unpleasant, had greatly lessened, dropping almost back down to the level it had been at when they'd been watching this building from the rooftop. _That doesn't make any sense, _he thought, frowning ferociously.

"Are you in pain? Where did they hit you?"

"…I think I'm okay, actually. I mean, it hurts, but it's not nearly as bad as it was right before I passed out." He moved to sit up, curious as to whether or not the hurt would intensify as it had earlier, but was stopped by strong hands holding him down.

"Don't move. Tell me where they hit you. What hurts?"

"He only hit me once. At least, that's all I remember being hit. In the stomach. That's where it hurts, but…" he bit the sentence off, realizing that while telling Batman he had been in more pain _before_ he got hit might ease his concern it would also entail admitting that he'd failed to report discomfort. They had a rule about that, established before he'd ever been allowed out as Robin, that stated that he had to let his partner know about any and all injuries or other problems as soon as possible after they occurred. He'd broken the rule only once before, and hadn't been allowed to patrol for two months; there was no way he was going to let it slip that he'd technically done so again.

"But?"

"…I just feel like it should hurt more than it does, that's all."

"Robin, I think you're bleeding internally," he explained quietly. There was no point in trying to hide the possible extent of his injuries; if he did have that kind of damage, he'd have to be told soon enough in any case.

"Why do you say that?"

Batman swiped his fingertip through the course of crimson marring the teen's face, then held it up to show it to him.

"Oh. No, I think that's just my mouth." Wincing, he pulled his lower lip out to reveal three sets of bite marks, the freshest of which was still seeping.

_Oh, thank god._ "It looks like you went almost all the way through on the one," he observed to cover his joy at the fact that he may have been mistaken about there being internal hemorrhaging.

"Yeah. I did that when he hit me. Can I sit now that I've convinced you I'm not dying?"

"Yes." He slipped an arm under his back and levered him up, leaving a hand on his shoulder to keep him from trying to go any further too quickly. "Did that make it worse?" he inquired when his partner squeezed his eyes shut and reached for his side.

"Just a little. It's okay."

"Rest a minute. How many more were there?"

"Just one." He shook his head. "It was strange. Those three," he gestured towards the hall, "when I was listening to them talk, it sounded like they were holding this fourth guy hostage. So after they were down, I came in here to untie him. He was acting kind of off kilter, but I thought it was mostly just, you know, fear from having been held captive. I still can't believe he attacked me."

"The _hostage_ is the one who hit you?" Batman asked, a little surprised.

"Yeah. It was my own fault, really, I should have watched him more closely, but…" _But I was in ridiculously stupid amounts of pain_, he thought. "He was their hostage. I figured he was on our side."

"…Is there any chance, based on what you heard, that the hostage was working with them to pull this off?"

Robin reflected silently. "He's the one who gave them the codes," he remembered. "When the codes didn't work, he's the one they got angry with. Well, him and whoever invented Daylight Savings Time."

"…What? What does Daylight Savings Time have to do with it?"

"It's the reason the codes he gave them didn't work. The clocks moved forward, and the new time meant the codes switched an hour sooner than the thieves expected. We got lucky; that kept them from getting anything that they came for."

The sounds of shouting and running footsteps broke their conversation off. Exchanging a look as Gotham PD made their presence in the building painfully obvious, Batman pulled Robin fully onto his feet, steadying him when he reached for his side. "We're looking at that when we get home," he said in a tone that left no room for argument.

"Batman!" A SWAT officer burst into the room. "Did you get them all? Is this the whole crew?"

He glanced down at his young partner. "I didn't get any of them. Robin did."

"Really?" Annoyingly, the cop looked rather surprised at that revelation. "Huh. Well, good on you, I guess. So there were just the three?"

A tiny increase in the pressure on his arm told him that Batman didn't want him to mention the missing guard just yet. "So far as we know," he reported.

"All right. We'll get these guys booked. You know where they'll be if you want to talk to them."

"Right. Let's go, Robin." They brushed past the policeman and didn't speak again until they'd returned to the car, left in an abandoned alley several blocks away. "How are you feeling now?"

"About the same. Like I said, it hurts, but it's not going to kill me or anything."

The cowl nodded. "Good." He busied himself with driving, seeming almost too involved in the minutiae of steering given how deserted the streets were. "You did well tonight, Robin," he said quietly as they pulled into the cave.

He'd been right on the edge of sleep, but his ears had been fine tuned from years of practice to pick up on any bit of praise that Batman, incredibly parsimonious with such things, gave out. "…Thanks," he replied half-heartedly. "I don't feel like I really did much, though. They weren't going to get what they wanted regardless of whether or not we were there, and then I got blindsided by the _hostage_, of all people."

"I was talking about your control of the situation. The hostage notwithstanding, you waited, and listened, and took each person successfully. From the looks of them, I would wager they had three very different fighting styles."

"…Yeah. They did." Staring out of his window as they rolled to a stop, he recalled the way he'd lost track of everything else when the woman – _what was her name again? Monica. Right._ – had been sashaying up to him and felt a flush of heat in his cheeks. He hadn't been in control of the situation then, and that was saying the least. _I guess you could call seduction a fighting style. It almost worked on me, that's for sure._

"And yet you adapted to all three quickly enough to win. That shows remarkable mental flexibility. It's an important skill to have mastery over. Tonight you demonstrated that you are well on your way to dominating it."

"I…thanks," he repeated, his voice still hollow. Climbing out of the car slowly, hand clamped to his side again, he felt the eyes behind the cowl drilling into the back of his head. "I'll do better next time," he added as he heard Batman exit the vehicle as well.

"…Go shower, then come back out here so I can check where you were hit."

"Right," he agreed, starting off for the bathroom.

Batman began to pull his gloves off as he watched the teen walk away. It was odd, the way Robin had seemed to be trying to deflect his commendation; normally he lapped it up eagerly, grinning from ear to ear in the knowledge that he'd pleased his mentor. What had he meant when he'd said he would do better next time? Sure, there was always room for improvement, but he had sounded rather downcast, as if he'd been scolded rather than applauded.

_Something's not right, with the case or with Robin. I feel like I'm missing a piece of crucial information in both situations._ Sighing, he shook his head. They had been interrupted by Gotham PD, so it was possible that the clue he needed would be forthcoming once they sat down and hashed over what had occurred in the room where he'd found Robin. As for Robin himself...even the brightest and best behaved teenagers were strange, moody creatures sometimes, Alfred had warned him some time ago. He supposed that he'd just never really been able to accept that it would happen to _his_ teenager. His kid was different from others, always had been, and somehow he had thought that he'd be different in this way, too. _Damn hormones,_ he thought, tossing his gloves onto the seat of the car. _He'll figure it out, whatever it is. _

Surely there was no need to worry.


	5. Chapter 5

Dick awoke in his bed with a moan of pain. Shooting a look towards his clock, he calculated that he'd been asleep for roughly six hours, which was nowhere near long enough so far as he was concerned. He was still exhausted after last night's patrol, but the pain in his side had intensified again while he slept, refusing to let him stay in the arms of Morpheus.

There was a short knock on his door before Alfred entered. "Good morning, Master Dick," he greeted. "Up earlier than expected, I see."

"Hey, Alfred," came a faint reply from somewhere in the covers. The butler frowned slightly and drew nearer, noticing that the teen was curled into a tight ball instead of being sprawled out in his usual manner.

"Master Dick?" he asked gently, leaning down to meet his eyes. "Are you in pain? You took quite a blow last night."

"It's okay. It's just sore." Bruce and Alfred had both examined him and agreed that he'd managed to avoid internal injury, merely sustaining an ugly welted bruise that stretched across a good portion of his lower right abdomen. They'd deemed it minor enough that Bruce had even said Robin could do a mid-week patrol, assuming that he did well on his chemistry test. There was no way that Dick was going to complain with that offer on the table; Bruce had a bad tendency of treating him with kid gloves anytime he was hurt in the field, so being allowed to go out again so soon was a big deal. He could just imagine how the man would react if he started whining about a simple contusion.

"…Very well, young sir. Would you like some breakfast, or are you planning on sleeping a while longer?"

"Um…sleep. Definitely sleep. Could you…would you mind giving me another blanket?" He shivered, suddenly freezing.

"Of course," Alfred acceded. A narrow line of worry appeared between his eyebrows as he retrieved a heavy down quilt from the linen closet in the hall. Before he re-entered the bedroom he glanced at the thermostat and was perplexed to find that it read 74 degrees. The temperature in the house was exactly where it should have been, and yet the boy was cold. He spread the new cover over the comforter Dick was already encased in and tucked it tightly around him. "Better?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dick lied, smiling. "Thanks."

"If you'll just ring when you wake up again, I'll bring your luncheon upstairs." He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly didn't want him getting up if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

"Really?!" Bruce got meals in bed fairly frequently, but they were a treat for Dick, reserved for cases of extreme illness and special occasions.

Alfred raised a finger to his lips.

"I won't tell," Dick whispered. "Promise." With a nod of agreement, Alfred pulled the drapes a little tighter and left.

Alone again, he had nothing to distract him from the miserable pressure that started below the waistband of his pajama pants and didn't give up until right before his ribs. After a little experimenting he found that lying absolutely still made it slightly better. It wasn't much, especially since it was hard to be perfectly motionless when he was raked with chills, but it gave him enough relief to consider what he could do to keep his mind off the rest of it. Sleep was out of the question, no matter how much he wanted it; he could never sleep when he was cold. Even if he managed to get his body to cooperate, he wasn't mentally tired. In fact, he realized, his short banter with Alfred had woken him up, and now his brain was screaming for something other than bodily ache to entertain it. _Where'd those Asimov short stories Alfred gave me a couple days ago get to?_ he wondered. Raising his head slightly with another moan, he located it on top of his school bag, on the other side of the room. "Way too far away," he said aloud. "But…"

He had almost forgotten about the book Bruce had handed him shortly before Thanksgiving, asking him to read it carefully when he had some spare time and then come to him so they could discuss it. He'd cautioned him not to just skim through it, but instead to really think about what was said in each passage, decide whether or not he agreed with it, and determine why he felt that way. At the time Dick had been struck by the serious mien with which the man had handed it to him, and had placed it on his nightstand, fully intending to do as he'd been asked. The next day, however, he'd found a copy of Heinlein's _Starship Troopers_ in the school library and had promptly fallen down the sci-fi rabbit hole, leaving Bruce's book to gather dust on the shelf. Every few weeks he would remember and feel a little guilty that he'd never even opened it, but when Bruce didn't mention it again he concluded that it wasn't as important as he'd thought.

Now, though, it had skyrocketed back to the top of his reading list for the simple reason that it was the book located nearest to him. Getting it was still going to be tough, he realized as he tried to pull himself across the mattress and a gasp forced its way through his lips. _I could call Alfred,_ he theorized. _No, no way. I can't drag him all the way upstairs just to hand me something that's only two feet away. _Grinding his teeth determinedly, he kicked out against the mattress with both feet.

He had to bite into his fist to keep himself silent. His mind ran through scenes in movies featuring people being cut in half, and he was certain that this was exactly what it felt like. Keeping one ear cocked to the door in case Alfred or Bruce was nearby, he let quiet whimpers escape around his hand, but it still took a long time before he could register anything except the massacre going on in his stomach. Once he could see straight again, he discovered that he'd pushed himself right up to the edge of the mattress. "Ha, I win," he whispered tearfully, stretching one arm out with another stifled cry to grab his prize.

There wasn't enough room left on the bed to open the book, at least not unless he wanted to try and move backwards, so he propped it up against his lamp. Beginning to read, he found himself confused at first; some of the passages seemed to be historical, while others were more like aphorisms or parables. The fact that he kept having to stop in order to slam his eyes shut against tormented tears, he mused as he came out of one such spell, probably wasn't helping his concentration any. With that in mind, he began to skim or skip the longer passages, focusing on those that took up less than half a page. It wasn't _exactly_ the way he'd been told to read, but at least he'd finally started it. There were plenty of sections that Dick didn't agree with, and that he knew Bruce wouldn't either, but there was a fair bit that made good sense, too. As he went along, he started to understand why Bruce wanted him to concentrate and really ruminate on what was being said; there was a _lot_ about killing, revenge, and dying at the proper moment. _No wonder he said we were going to talk once I'd finished it. There's some really heavy stuff in this little book._

About halfway through the thin volume, just as his pain approached a crescendo that threatened to overpower his ability to do anything but stare at the ceiling and moan, his eyes fell on a particular tale:

_At the fall of the castle of Arima, on the twenty-eighth day in the vicinity of the inmost citadel, Mitsuse Genbei sat down on a levee between the fields. When Nakano Shigetoshi passed by and asked the reason for this, Mitsuse replied, "I have abdominal pains and can't go a step farther. I have sent the members of my group ahead, so please take command." This situation was reported by the overseer, pronounced to be a case of cowardice, and Mitsuse was ordered to commit seppuku._

_Long ago, abdominal pains were called "cowardice grass." This is because they come suddenly and render a person immobile._

He read the last two sentences at least a dozen times, his breathing quickening, before he snapped the book shut and pulled his hand back to encircle his ever more wretched stomach. Staring at the worn leather cover that hid the story, he replayed the events of the last twenty four hours in his head. _Bruce told me I could patrol last night while we were at breakfast yesterday. Then right after that, out of nowhere, I started to hurt. It got worse and worse all day, and didn't get better until I woke up on the floor and knew we were done for the night. It was much better until Bruce said I could go out again later this week, and then it came back while I was sleeping. Now it's just like it was last night, and just like it was in the story; I can't move. _Tears began to pour from his eyes, but he didn't have the strength to wipe them away. _I'm a coward, _his fevered brain concluded._ I mean look, I'm lying in bed crying like a baby. I'm a coward all of a sudden, although I don't know when or how it happened. Mitsuse probably had no idea why either; he sounds like he was a pretty brave guy up to that point. Just like Mitsuse's peers figured out his problem, Bruce will figure out mine. He'll figure it out and…and…_ He wasn't so far out of his head that he thought his mentor would order him to disembowel himself, but in his overwrought state it was easy to picture being cast out, or worse, kept in scorn, a walking reminder of what gutlessness looked like.

His nose became stuffy, a side effect of his tears, and made it harder and harder for him to catch his breath. Every inward draw of air became a gasp, every exhalation a pinched sob. He had buried his teeth in his lip again, drawing fresh blood, but he didn't notice, sunken as he was in the dreadful feeling that arose in his midsection as nausea layered itself on top of his already catastrophic abdominal pain. He struggled as silently as he could, desperate to keep his newly discovered pusillanimity a secret for just a little while longer. Finally, though, he couldn't hold it back any longer, and leaned over the last few inches to release an anguished, echoing scream and vomit what little had been in him onto the floor.

Two sets of pounding footsteps responded after a stunned second. Half hanging off of the mattress and unable to pull himself back, he started crying harder still as he listened to them approach. _Coward,_ he berated himself silently. _Worthless, stupid coward. You're no hero, Dick Grayson; you're just a goddamn phony playing the part. Coward._ _Coward._

_Coward._

**Author's Note: The book that Dick is reading is William Scott Wilson's translation of Yamamoto Tsunetomo's 'Hagakure.' If you aren't one for reading books of samurai philosophy but are still interested, the movie 'Ghost Dog' gives an excellent introduction to some of the essential points of the book in a modern American setting. Thee's also always the wealth of classic Japanese samurai movies; anything with Toshiro Mifune or Tatsuya Nakadai, in particular, is both an education and great fun.**_  
_

**And for those of you who are just dying to know exactly what it is troubling our young hero (which he is, regardless of what his fever-riddled brain and a poorly timed passage from the Hagakure is insisting right now), hold out just a couple more chapters, and all will be revealed. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce, who had only just gotten out of bed and thrown on clothes, reached Dick's bedroom first. It didn't even occur to him to knock, not after the scream that had just echoed through the house. He had never heard him cry out quite like that before, and he already knew he never wanted to hear anything like it again. Flying across the room, he pulled his shaking, mewling son back away from the edge of the bed and tried to calm him. He thought at first that it had been a nightmare – it certainly wouldn't have been the first time he'd let loose a primal wail as a result of one of those – but quickly realized that the teen was very much awake.

"Hush, hush, tell me what it is, Dicky, tell me, _please_…" His words only drew more cries. Even in his panicked state, Bruce's natural instinct to gather clues kicked in, and he swiftly noticed that the body beneath his hands was hunched in over itself. For some reason he couldn't get him to meet his eyes. "It's your stomach, isn't it? It's okay," he soothed, the confusion and distress on his boy's face breaking his heart. "It's okay, it'll be okay, we'll get it fixed, I promise…"

He didn't realize Alfred had come in behind him until the other man bent in from the opposite side with a wet rag in his hand. "Good lord, he's burning up," the butler said, immediately running the cool cloth along his throat and face. "I was afraid he might be developing a fever," he shook his head. "He was cold a short while ago."

"It has to be his stomach. I didn't think it was anything more than a nasty bruise, but…"

Dick quieted a little under the pair's gentle ministrations, his tears slowing as his sobs spaced themselves out. Breathing was still difficult, particularly after a hard cough drew another yelp from his throat, but the four hands that held him down through the spell steadied him slightly. He felt one of them – Bruce's, he was pretty sure – go to his throat, feeling for his pulse. He was too out of it to care. They could do whatever they wanted, so long as they didn't try to make him move or speak.

Two of the hands disappeared, then returned after an uncertain amount of time. Something cold and smooth – _thermometer_, his fever-wracked brain registered – slipped under his tongue, then went away again. Above him he could hear them talking, but none of the words made any sense. He drifted.

"…He's almost 104 degrees. That's much too high."

"His heart rate is really up, too."

"He needs a doctor, Master Wayne. Desperately."

"Call Leslie, then."

The butler shook his head. "There's not time for that. She's all the way across town, and would be dealing with late morning rush hour traffic to get here. I expect that she would advise us to call an ambulance at this point."

"What are we going to tell them about the bruising?"

"Have you looked at it again?"

"No, but with the way he's acting it has to be worse. What else could it be?"

"Mmm." He frowned deeply. "Master Dick?" he urged, patting his cheek.

"Alfred, what are you-"

"I have a suspicion that I'm trying to verify, Master Wayne. If I am incorrect, we may still be safe in calling Dr. Thompkins."

"…Oh."

Dick swam slowly back up and cracked his eyelids to find both men staring down at him, rictuses of concern on their faces. "Hurts," he whispered.

"I know," Bruce all but crooned, biting at his own lip exactly the same way Dick tended to when he was stressed. "We're going to fix it, okay?" His thumbs traced down the trembling teen's cheeks, wiping away wetness.

"We need to look at your injury, Master Dick," Alfred told him in a kind but firm voice, pulling the covers back. "It's the only way for us to know what's going on."

His eyes went wide at that. "Nooo…" he whimpered, hating the whine he heard in his own voice and berating himself mentally for evincing such unmanliness.

"It won't hurt nearly as much if you'll just relax," the butler insisted, his hands resting on the teen's drawn-up knees.

"Can't. Alfred, please, no."

"I don't want to cause you further pain, Master Dick, but if you don't relax I may do so inadvertently. I _have _to look. I know you understand that." The thought of examining him against his will was exceedingly distasteful, but he had to determine whether his hunch was correct. If it was, the high fever was the least of their worries.

"Please," he begged, turning tear-shiny eyes towards Bruce. He pouted automatically, pulling out every trick in the book to keep them from trying to touch his stomach. His lower lip jutted outward to reveal where he had torn into his own flesh in his efforts to restrain his cries, and Bruce wavered.

"Can't we give him something first?"

"I hesitate to do so without knowing the cause of his affliction, sir. It could result in a bad reaction."

Bruce closed his eyes, at that moment hating everything in the world except the figure under his hands. "I'm sorry, kiddo. Alfred's right." When he met Dick's gaze again, the look of betrayal in it was so stunned that he had to turn his head away. "Do it," he ordered hoarsely.

He didn't watch as the other man forcibly examined the teen. He didn't have to; he could tell exactly how well it was going from the shrieks and sobs that would haunt his sleep for weeks. Holding the boy's arms down proved difficult despite his sizable advantage in position and muscle mass, only adding to his conviction that he was essentially assisting in the torture of his child. As Alfred finished, Dick fell back into choked moans, and Bruce realized that he was crying along with him.

"Well? Did you learn anything?" he asked scathingly, feeling as if he'd just taken part in something dirty.

Alfred went still and stared at him in disbelief. He'd been about to explain that his suspicion had been supported by the evidence, but the billionaire's words had carried the most offensive undertones he had ever addressed him with. "Master Wayne, I assure you I did not enjoy that in the least," he replied coldly. "I do not appreciate the implication in your voice."

Bruce sighed defeatedly. "I'm sorry," he apologized, shoulders slumping. "I just-"

"I understand," the butler cut him off, rising from the bed. His face had regained its usual stoic expression, but inside he was still fuming. "I'm going to call an ambulance. I will show them the way up. You should stay here with him."

"Alfred-" The door shut, not quite slamming, but latching with a very firm click. "Goddamn it." Shaking his head, he turned his attention fully onto his son, who was still weeping helplessly. "Dick, are you-ooh," he lamented when he saw the red smeared around his mouth. He retrieved the now lukewarm washcloth Alfred had brought in and gingerly cleaned his face off. The injured teen had come at his lip from the outside during the throes of the examination, and had managed to bite all the way through to his gums, leaving an ugly slash above his chin. Bruce pressed the bloodied cotton to it and gave him a faltering smile. "You bit through it good this time. They'll probably have to give you stitches at the hospital."

"Bruce," he whispered back. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, let alone to talk; trying to keep Alfred from prodding all of the most painful spots in his belly had drained what little energy he'd had left. "I'm sorry…"

He negated those words vigorously, bending down to rest his forehead on Dick's. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing."

Dick gave a last, tiny sob at that, then closed his eyes. Bruce took the noise as a sign that he had been believed and lay down beside him, speaking quiet nothings, to wait for the paramedics.

Uncomforted by his guardian's words, Dick slipped back into oblivion, certain that if his cowardice wasn't a known fact now, it would be before long. Steeped in that belief, his last thought was a fervent wish that he would not wake up to face it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I thought we'd have a two-fer Tuesday. :D Enjoy!**

He paced the green-tiled main hall of Gotham Memorial's surgical wing, his face a mask of guilt and fear. _I should have called Leslie last night,_ he self-flagellated. _Even though it just looked like a nasty bruise, he was __unconscious__ when I found him. That should have told me that he needed more expertise than Alfred and I could give him. What the hell was I thinking?_

"Master Wayne," the butler stopped him, handing him a foam cup full of something hot. Bruce sipped it and grimaced at the greasy aftertaste.

"…Is this supposed to be coffee?"

"Yes."

"It's got nothing on yours."

"…Sir."

Bruce pursed his lips. Alfred had been distant with him ever since the little incident that had occurred after his examination of Dick, and Bruce knew it was entirely his fault. He had said and done more than a few things over the years that had merited exactly the kind of chilly disdain he was sensing now, but he'd rarely been disfavored enough to actually experience it. "Alfred, listen," he started, eager to put at least that facet of his life back the way it was supposed to be.

"Mr. Wayne? The doctor will see you now." He turned to find a middle aged woman in scrubs standing with her arms crossed, waiting for him.

"Is he alright?" he requested immediately. They hadn't been told anything for almost three hours. Bruce was pretty sure that his shoes were going to have to be re-soled after all the miles he'd put on them.

"The doctor can tell you about that. Follow me."

He shot a fearful look at Alfred, whose displeased expression had been shoved aside in favor of concern about Dick upon hearing the less than reassuring tone in the nurse's voice. They dogged her down so many turning corridors that Bruce wasn't sure he'd be able to find his way back out without a guide, stopping finally in front of an unmarked room. She waved them inside without a word and shut the door behind them.

Bruce halted when he realized that they were in an office, not a patient room. "Where is he?" he demanded of the person seated at the desk. She opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off by a man sitting in the far corner of the room.

"Sit down, Mr. Wayne," the man said. "We have some things to discuss."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Where is my son?" he growled.

"Mr. Wayne, please," the woman behind the desk tried to calm him, rising and offering her hand as she spoke. "I'm Dr. Montoya. Rest assured, we're doing everything we can for Richard."

"What is _that _supposed to mean?"

"Won't you sit down? This may take a few minutes." Once both Bruce and Alfred were seated, she continued. "He came in suffering from sepsis. Do you know what that means?"

"…Blood poisoning?" Bruce practically gasped. "How did he get that?" Beside him, Alfred's hands tightened on the arms of his chair.

"All evidence indicates that it was the end result of a case of secondary peritonitis, which was itself induced by a ruptured appendix. Had he been complaining of pains in his stomach at all over the last few days?"

The two men looked at each other. "I do not recall him mentioning anything in particular," Alfred related. "He did seem to have less appetite than usual at dinner, but I attributed that to the curry."

"I didn't see much of him yesterday," Bruce put in. "He spent most of it in his room, studying for a big test he has coming up." Frowning, he remembered something from the previous evening, just a hint, but something. "He did kind of gasp when he got up from his chair last night," he mused. "I asked him about it, but he said he was fine. He blamed it on indigestion, actually. Then he seemed a little quieter than usual for the rest of the evening, but…like I said, he's been preparing for an important exam."

"What time, roughly, would you say he seemed to be in pain?"

"Eight thirty two."

She looked impressed. "That's…rather exact."

"I'd been watching the clock all evening, waiting until he seemed to be at a good stopping point. I asked him to take a walk with me, give what he was studying a chance to soak in. He puts things together better in his head when he can take a break and do something physical. I…I'm the same way." he whispered the last, staring at the wood grain of the desk.

"I see. Well, that fits in with the timeline I had figured, although I can't imagine why he wouldn't have said something. Appendicitis is very painful, and peritonitis is even more so. Is there someone else in the house he might have spoken to?"

"No. It's just the three of us."

"Master Dick can be very stubborn about admitting when he is ill," Alfred explained. _A bad habit learned, I believe, from the example of his guardian,_ he didn't add. "He has demonstrated in the past an admirable ability to bear up and smile under even the most undue pressures."

"Undue pressure?" the man in the back broke back into the conversation. "What kind of 'undue pressure' could the teenaged ward of one of the richest men living find himself under?"

"The death of his parents is an excellent example to start with, don't you think?" Alfred replied crisply. The unnamed figure scowled and fell silent again.

"All right," Dr. Montoya said after a moment. "I think we've all got the basic idea. I assume he was unable to hide his illness this morning, which is what prompted you to call an ambulance?"

"He was shrieking like a banshee," Bruce mumbled, closing his eyes tightly.

"…Yes," the butler verified. "As you said, Doctor."

"I'm sorry," Bruce broke suddenly, "but how much longer is this going to take?"

"Important business meeting to get to, Mr. Wayne?" came from the rear of the room.

"I want to see him, Doctor," the billionaire told the woman who was watching him sympathetically, ignoring the taunt that had been thrown out a second earlier.

"They'll still be getting him settled in ICU," she explained. "He'll need to stay there until we can be sure the sepsis is gone."

"…He's in ICU?"

"Standard procedure, Mr. Wayne," she smiled gently. "It didn't have much chance to advance, thanks to the fact that you called an ambulance when you did. Mortality rates for sepsis at this level are very low, less than five percent."

"So one in twenty doesn't make it."

"Slightly more than nineteen in twenty _do_ make it," she corrected him. "Barring any major complications, I see absolutely no reason why Richard won't be one of those nineteen. He's in remarkable health, even just compared to others in his age range. He did beautifully in surgery and in recovery, strong vitals all the way through. He even woke up a little bit right before I left to come and meet you."

"Did he say anything?"

"He seemed to be apologizing for something." Seeing the look on Bruce's face at that, she shrugged. "He was a little difficult to understand, and everyone says strange things when they're coming out of anesthesia in any case. I wouldn't read too much into it. He's probably just got a dirty magazine hidden under his mattress, something like that."

"How long will it be until I can see him?"

"That depends on you, Mr. Wayne." The man who had been lurking in the back of the room stood up and moved to stand behind Dr. Montoya. "The same as whether or not you'll be seeing him today depends on your answers to my questions, regardless of what Dr. Montoya may or may not promise you."

"My apologies, sir," Alfred addressed him. His tone was perfectly proper, but the dislike beneath it was glaring. "I seem to have missed your name and purpose for being here."

"I'm Henry Erwin, the Gotham Child Protective Services liaison for this hospital. You, of course, would be Alfred Pennyworth, butler to Mr. Wayne. I would advise you to not speak until you are asked a direct question. Unless, of course, you _want_ the boy to be taken away on the basis of the myriad other injuries, past and present, that were found and reported by Dr. Montoya."

Both of the still-seated men turned questioning looks towards the doctor.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, her expression one of sincere regret. "I didn't have a choice."


	8. Chapter 8

"What the hell is this?" Bruce stormed. He knew, of course, that this all had to do with the purple and black mark that they had no good explanation for, but he wasn't prepared to admit that yet. "No one is taking him away from me. And don't talk to Alfred like that, either," he added.

"Whether or not the boy will be allowed to remain in your care is yet to be seen, Mr. Wayne," Erwin said coolly, an unpleasant smile on his lips. "As for your butler, I was merely advising him as to the course of action most likely to result in a favorable end for you. My job, you see, is to assess the injuries of minors brought into this hospital in order to determine if they are the victims of abusive behavior."

"Abusive behavior?" Bruce almost sneered. "I have _never_ hit him, and I never would. Dick is _not_ abused."

"Then you will, of course, be able to explain this?" He pulled a photo from the file in his hand and flicked it onto the desk. Bruce leaned forward to examine it only in order to keep up the pretense that he knew nothing.

"What is this?" he asked, passing the photo to Alfred, who also pretended perplexity.

"That, Mr. Wayne, is evidence of the severe abdominal trauma that your ward came into this hospital with this morning. Exhibit A, I like to think of it as."

"Really, Henry, please," Dr. Montoya broke in, frowning deeply. "There's no need to be so aggressive."

"I would remind you, Doctor, that _you_ are the one who brought this to my attention."

"Yes, because I'm required to by law."

"What are you saying, then? That you wouldn't have been concerned about it if you weren't _required_ to be? How about the other marks, the scars he's littered with? You wouldn't have cared about those either?"

"He's a fourteen year old boy, Henry. Boys get into trouble, they start fights, they play rough. They fall out of trees, wreck their bicycles going insane speeds, and jump without looking. I should know, I have three of my own. If I didn't have full health coverage through the hospital, I'd be bankrupt from their medical bills, even on a surgeon's salary." She sent Bruce a tiny smile. "Even the best behaved kids get in over their heads from time to time. That's why a stable, loving home is so important."

"_Exactly_ my point, Dr. Montoya," Erwin said slimily. "All of those regular, everyday injuries, many of them obviously deep enough to have required stitches, and yet the boy's medical records are surprisingly silent as to when and where they were cared for. He's only been seen here once before, and the other major hospitals have never laid eyes on him."

"If I may, Mr. Erwin," Alfred inserted, trying to buy Bruce time to decide on their story. "I have ample enough experience in triage and basic medicine to allow me to patch most of the young man's scrapes and such at home. Dr. Leslie Thompkins can attest to the treatment that he has received for his few more serious mishaps. Richard Grayson receives the exact same level of medical care that his guardian did at his age. Despite that fact, there have now been at least four times the number of inquiries into his safety and wellbeing at Wayne Manor as occurred when Master Wayne was himself the minor in question. I must request an explanation for this repeated harassment."

"Times change, Mr. Pennyworth. These days we prefer to keep our children from acquiring the types of injuries that this boy seems to collect with the voracity others direct towards sports cards, rather than just treating them secretly when they occur." There was a moment during which no one spoke. "So, can either of you explain where this mark came from, or not?"

"…I don't know," Bruce said slowly. He was taking a gamble, hoping that he would be able to talk to Dick and work out something that all three of them could stick to before Erwin got to him. He figured that his odds of success were slightly higher if he purported to know nothing than they would be if he made up something more detailed. "We didn't see it until we found him sick in bed this morning. There wasn't an opportunity to ask him about it."

"You knew nothing either, I assume, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"I discovered the injury along with Master Wayne, in the manner that he stated."

"Interesting, especially considering the doctor's opinion that this blow – a very recent injury, by the way – was what caused his appendix to burst when it did, leading of course to his further internal issues."

"If he hadn't been hit where he was, I estimate he could have gone at least several hours longer before the organ ruptured. That extra time may have spared him at least the sepsis he's currently fighting, if not the peritonitis as well," Dr. Montoya explained.

Bruce felt his heart miss a beat. _Oh, god. Oh, god, that fucking bastard almost killed him. I'm going to find that son of a bitch, if it's the last thing I do. I should never have had us split up, if I had just stayed with him…_ He dragged his attention back to the desk at Alfred's light touch on his arm, and found himself looking at another photo. He winced at the sight of stitches securing the gash Dick had bitten in his lip.

"And how about this? Do you have a clever answer for this?"

"He did that when he was in so much pain this morning," the billionaire managed. "I didn't realize he was biting his lip, or I would have tried to stop him."

"It was a bite wound, Henry," Dr. Montoya concurred. "Definitely self-inflicted. I stated as much in my report."

"Hmph. Well, how about the bruises around his wrists? Someone held him down with a fair amount of force. Someone with rather large hands, judging from the marks."

"That was my doing," Alfred jumped in again, sensing that Bruce was still reeling from the revelation of the damage done by the single hit Dick had taken the night before. "I examined him briefly this morning, when we discovered his state. He made an attempt to stop me from doing so, but as I mentioned, I have a fair bit of medical experience and believed that I could make an educated decision as to whether or not he required an ambulance or merely a house call by Dr. Thompkins. During my examination he began to flail, and we feared he would hurt himself. Master Wayne kept him still in order to allow me to determine the extent of the problem, after which time I immediately phoned for emergency personnel."

"…Are you done, Henry?" Dr. Montoya inquired when Erwin merely shuffled papers for several seconds, seemingly out of bombs to drop. "He should be settled by now, although I seriously doubt he'll be awake. I'm sure Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth would like to see him in any case."

"I'm not comfortable with that," he announced. "I don't want there to be any chance for undue pressure to be levied on the boy before I get a chance to speak with him. My investigation is far from finished."

"I'm willing to act as a chaperone," the surgeon offered immediately.

"I'm afraid you've made your opinion on this case too clear for me to be comfortable with that, either."

"Well then _you_ go in with them," she suggested, her mouth pressed into a tight line.

"I don't have room for that in my schedule. I'm due in court in half an hour. Another of your patients, in fact." Nodding sarcastically to Bruce and Alfred, he made his way towards the door. "I'm sure you can advise them as to how they should behave if they ever wish to see the boy again."

"Henry, this is cruel," Montoya protested. "Pick a third party to go in with them, at least. Let them see him somehow."

"I'll put in for a court-appointed supervisor. It should only take a week or so to get a name back."

Bruce started to rise from his chair, aching to hit something, anything really, but preferably the asshole CPS agent mocking him from the doorway. Alfred's hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Ah ah, Mr. Wayne," Erwin lectured. "Temper, temper." Leaving those words floating behind him, he departed, whistling happily.

"Dr. Montoya," Alfred addressed her when the three of them were alone. "Is there any way that you know of around this? We've gone through an ungodly number of trials with Mr. Erwin's particular branch of Gotham Social Services, but we've never been outright forbidden to go near the boy before."

"I'm afraid not," she sighed. "Until Erwin's suspicions are determined to be unfounded or he is removed from the case, he can keep you from seeing Richard. He's not required to choose a third party off hand, as I suggested; he can ask the courts to assign someone instead, which usually takes some time."

"What about indirect communications? Telephone, letters?"

She shook her head. "I wouldn't risk it. Any attempt to try and contact him, even just passing a message along through someone other than the court-appointed chaperone, could be twisted into looking like an attempt to cover up abuse." She paused. "I shouldn't tell you this, but I really hate that man. I specialized in pediatric surgery specifically so that I could help children who were being abused. After twenty years in the field, I've gotten pretty good at knowing when there's cause for concern and when there isn't. A few years back, a lot of the definitions and laws regarding abuse of minors were changed. Some of the changes were good; others I thought a lot less of. At the time, having a CPS agent attached to the hospital seemed like a fantastic idea. Sometimes I was having to hound the agency to get on the really bad cases that rolled into my OR. A few kids, I know, slipped through the cracks despite all the efforts I made. Unfortunately we were assigned Henry Erwin as a liaison instead of someone useful."

"He seems very…dedicated." Alfred said, his left eye twitching once as the euphemism rolled off of his tongue.

"In his mind, every child is abused. I don't know why he believes that so fervently. Normally I would think that being a little bit over cautious was a good thing, when it comes to what he does. But he's very, very good at convincing family court judges that abuse is taking place, even when it isn't. I've watched him tear happy, loving families to pieces, Mr. Pennyworth. In fact, I believe that's what he's on his way to do now. I've submitted my affidavit in the case, but I'm afraid it's not going to be enough."

"Not mine," Bruce growled.

"…I'm sorry?" she fumbled, meeting his gaze and finding the same determination she had seen in dozens of parents following their first encounter with Henry Erwin. She was not looking forward to the aftermath if the billionaire in front of her was worn to defeat in the same way so many of the others had been.

"Not my family. He is _not_ going to win this." _Dick is mine, goddamn it,_ he raged to himself. _He's __mine__._

_Maybe_, Dr. Montoya reflected as she watched him, _it will be different this time. He doesn't strike me as the kind of person who gives up, even when he probably ought to._ "Mr. Wayne," she voiced, standing and offering her hand. "I hope you're right. If there is anything I can do to aid you, please let me know. I'd love to see you win this. It would help more kids than just Richard."

"There is one thing you can do for me, Dr. Montoya," Bruce said, also rising to his feet.

"What's that?"

He gripped her hand tightly, pleadingly, and stared her straight in the eye. "Take care of my son. I…I'm nothing without him."

She shook once, swallowing heavily. All of the decent parents she had walked this road with before had expressed similar sentiments, but none of them had had Bruce Wayne's reputation. For all that the man was supposed to be a notorious playboy, it was blatantly obvious that he wasn't exaggerating about the place the teenager lying several floors over their heads in ICU held in his heart. "I will, Mr. Wayne. I absolutely will."


	9. Chapter 9

Most of the ride back to the manor was silent. Alfred had practically had to force Bruce to leave; the man had seriously been considering just living in the hospital lobby until they would let him see Dick. He had only relented when he'd been reminded that doing so might hand Erwin another argument to use against them. As they drove, the butler ran through mental lists of people that could be rallied to assist them in yet another court custody battle, hoping that it would be enough this time.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?" He still wasn't overly pleased with him after the incident of that morning, but compassion and his own personal fear that they might lose Dick – if not to this illness, then to Henry Erwin – had smoothed the most ruffled of his feathers.

"I owe you an apology. What I said this morning was uncalled for. I know you were trying to help, and I know you would never do anything to purposefully hurt him. I just…"

"It can be monstrously difficult to present one's best face when someone you love is in such obvious pain," Alfred said evenly. "I understand, Master Wayne, and I accept your apology."

"Thank you," Bruce said quietly, staring out the windshield. "For that, and for everything else. I don't know where we would be without you."

"I prefer not to entertain such thoughts, sir. I cannot help but picture yourself and Master Dick residing in five star hotels, charming exotic women, eating far too much room service, and watching violent films until early morning."

"…Dick would love that."

"As would you yourself," the much put-upon butler sighed. "You would both be uncontrollable."

"…I can't lose him, Alfred. I won't lose him." He'd been forcefully sure that such a thing wouldn't, couldn't, happen just a short time ago, speaking to Dr. Montoya. His certainty had ebbed with his towering rage, however, and now he could see a million little things that could go wrong and screw everything up.

"I don't believe that this is a case Mr. Erwin can win," the butler confided truthfully, hoping to raise his passenger's spirits a little. "But I do believe that he will make it very, very difficult on you personally before it's said and done. I suspect that his keeping us from seeing Master Dick is just the first of several tricks up his sleeve."

"We've been through this so many times already. I don't understand why they won't leave us alone. How many times do they have to ask the same questions before they realize that the answers never change?"

"At least once more, I'm afraid." The car slowed as they pulled up to the front of the manor and Bruce got out. "Would you like me to prepare anything for you before I begin making phone calls?"

"No, I'd rather we get everything lined up to fight."

"Very good, sir." With that, he drove off to place the car in the garage.

Bruce stood on the steps for several minutes and looked out over the grounds, feeling useless. Trying to make any calls regarding the issue with CPS would be a waste; Alfred had coordinated their efforts every time they had had to wrangle over Dick in the past, and knew far better than Bruce who could be of the greatest help to them in this latest attempt on their happiness. It seemed pointless to go into the office so late in the day, seeing as how everyone would be on their way out by the time he got there. He supposed he could go down to the cave and start tracking the guard who was at least partly responsible for this mess, but strangely the thought of doing Batman work was less than appealing at the moment. He was tired and heartsick, and the only real relief for it would have been to be at Dick's side. With that option barred, the closest second was a trip to his bedroom.

It still bore the marks of the morning's events, the recollection of which forced Bruce's face to contort. There was a fresh chip in the door frame where the paramedics had banged their equipment, he noted. He found the spot where the teen had semi-vomited and spent a few minutes cleaning it up, not wanting to distract Alfred from his much more important task. That done, he wandered around the room, lightly touching various items along the way. A favored jacket, thrown over the desk chair; Dillydally, the ragged stuffed giraffe that had been one of the few things to come with him from the circus; a wax-sealed bottle of sand scraped off a beach up north the single time that Bruce had brought him along on a business trip.

He paused at that, then carried the bottle back to the bed and sat down among the disheveled linens to consider it. He'd only taken Dick with him because Alfred had been out of town for a family emergency and had made it painfully clear before he left that it would not be appropriate to leave a ten year old home alone for four days, even if that ten year old was highly capable and the fridge was fully stocked. It wasn't that Bruce had minded the idea of having him along, it was just that he knew the meetings he would have to drag him to would be boring as hell. He'd tried to find a babysitter, but none of them met his standards, so Dick ended up being carted along to all of the consultations that Bruce himself found dreadful. To his surprise, though, the boy had more or less ignored the bag full of books and quiet activities brought along to keep him occupied, instead watching the speakers silently, absorbing facts, figures, and jargon, and seeming to pay particular attention whenever his guardian made a comment.

Numerous presenters approached him to comment on the child's diligent attention to the proceedings, and Bruce took their words seriously. By the end of the second day he found himself holding a remarkably advanced conversation with Dick regarding one of the marketing strategies that had been presented, and on each of the remaining two nights they had similarly hashed out what they'd heard. Some of the concepts were just too advanced for the boy to grasp, but he still showed interest in them, and that in and of itself spoke volumes to Bruce. On the last evening, while Dick slept, the billionaire had attended a cocktail party at the summer home of an investor. Many of the others from the conference had also been there, and none of them had failed to relay their amazement at the level of understanding his ward had attained in just a few days of immersion. More than one person had also warned him teasingly that in another decade or so he was going to have a very serious rival in the charm department. Bruce had been light headed when he finally left the party, not from alcohol but with pride.

They were supposed to fly back to Gotham, but watching the child slumber he had a better idea. He'd rented a flashy convertible the next morning, and they had cruised southward along twisting coastal highways, wind in their hair and carefree grins on their lips. Reflecting, Bruce supposed he probably shouldn't have let Dick sit in the front seat, but at the time it had been about the fun. They ate a huge lunch at a dirty truck stop café that would have given Alfred a tic. The waitress looked as if she hadn't smiled in twenty years; in five minutes Dick had her howling mirthfully. The woman had been so overcome that she'd presented him with a gratis ice cream sundae that rivaled any Bruce had ever seen before. A short while down the road they'd found a deserted beach with sand that shone almost purple in the late afternoon sun. They had walked its length, occasionally chasing one another or competing to see who could throw a rock the furthest out to sea, their laughter echoing off of the high cliffs that flanked the strand. As they'd approached the car again, Dick had reached up and grasped his hand, giving him a shy smile. "Can we do this again sometime?" he'd asked hesitantly.

Bruce had told him yes, of course they could. He'd wanted to, desperately, as well; that day had been the most sublime one he could remember spending in many, many years. They'd packed an empty bottle that had rolled in with the tide full of that oddly-hued sand as both a keepsake and a promise to return; Bruce remembered exactly how it had felt to watch the boy tuck the uncapped glass into the cup holder as securely as possible, lining it with paper napkins to keep it from spilling. The billionaire had spent the drive back to Gotham glancing over at his utterly crashed passenger, unable to believe the change that had been wrought in his life by the simple introduction of this particular child.

He had promised they would go back, but Gotham was a demanding mistress. Work, coupled with the duties of Batman and the training of Robin, had taken precedent. After a few months Dick had stopped asking when they were going to go again, and Bruce, somewhat glad to be freed of the guilt that assailed him every time those wide blue eyes pleaded for another day out together, assumed he'd forgotten. "You didn't, though, did you," he murmured to the empty room, holding the bottle up to see if the sample inside still reflected purple. "You just knew I wasn't going to do it, so you stopped asking. You stopped asking so that I wouldn't have the opportunity to break my promise to you over and over again. Oh, Dick, you deserve someone much better than me." Falling backwards across the mattress, he clasped the vessel in the fingers of one hand and stared at the ceiling.

_Why didn't you come to me when you were in pain?_ He queried silently. _You tell me so much, I thought you would tell me everything I needed to know without my having to ask. I don't understand, Dick. I can't comprehend what could have made you feel like you couldn't tell me that you were hurting until you hurt so much you couldn't keep it secret any more. Whatever it is, you're going to have to explain. This can't go on. It just can't, because next time it might be too late for me to fix it, and I couldn't bear that. Losing you…if I lost you, I would lose the best part of myself._ Turning his head to the side to try and relieve the burning in his eyes, he realized that the bed smelled faintly of new books, sage-scented shampoo, and vanilla. A nearly inaudible sob escaped him as the mixture that was quintessential Dick teased his nose. _Fight, son. You beat back those infections and I'll pummel the ever-loving hell out of Henry Erwin and CPS. We'll win if we just both fight like hell. Together we can't lose._

_ We just…we just __can't__ lose, Dick. Not this battle. Please._


	10. Chapter 10

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep in Dick's bed when Alfred woke him. "Please have good news," he said in lieu of a greeting.

"I have cautiously optimistic news, sir. Would you mind coming downstairs and eating while I relay it to you?"

"…How long was I asleep?"

"Roughly four hours, Master Wayne. It is now just past nine. Do you feel any better rested?"

"Rested, yes. Better, no." Picking the bottle of sand up from amongst the covers, he placed it on the nightstand. As he pulled back, his eyes fell on the closed book beside the lamp. "…I didn't realize he'd started reading this," he said, running hishand across the cover.

Alfred glanced at it, peering slightly to make out the faded title on the spine. "Ah. So you've introduced him to some slightly more…_adult_ philosophical studies, sir?"

"I gave it to him a while ago. I wondered why he never came to talk about it. I guess he hadn't has much time for it lately, on top of school, Robin, and his sci-fi reading."

"He has been rather enamored with futuristic topics of late. He is in a stage of his life when most people prefer to look forward rather than backward; perhaps that's why he didn't peruse your selection sooner."

"Mm. I wonder how far he's gotten? He didn't mark a page." He frowned, flipping through the book. "He doesn't have anything personal with him, Alfred. If he asks for something to read they'll probably give him '_highlights'_." He scoffed at the thought of his bright fourteen year old trying to keep himself entertained searching for animals in pictures of wooded parks. "I wish there was some way I could at least get him a few things. This, for starters," he emphasized, shaking the volume in his hand.

"I'm not certain that writings so heavily focused on duty will do anything other than inspire him to get out of bed before he's healed, Master Wayne," Alfred pointed out.

"If we were allowed to see him we could monitor that, regardless of what he was reading." He struck the bed with a closed fist. "Damn it, Alfred!"

"I agree that it's extremely frustrating, sir. However, if you don't mind, your soup is cooling in the kitchen."

"Right, sorry," Bruce sighed, getting up and following the butler from the room. Stopping at the door to look back, he shook his head and shut off the light.

"As I mentioned, I have some information you may find of interest," the Englishman reminded as he set a large bowl of tomato basil down in front of the billionaire.

"I'm all ears," he invited, suddenly finding his appetite and plowing as politely as he could into the food before him.

"To begin with, we have some thirty persons lined up to provide signed and sworn affidavits attesting to the fact that Master Dick has not been abused during his time here. At least half of those people also volunteered to appear in court to back up their statements."

"…Thirty people know us well enough to swear to that?" Bruce asked, looking a little disturbed.

"Most of them have only fringe attachments to this house, sir. Three are Master Dick's teachers, whom I called to ask about making up work for the several weeks he is likely to miss class and were rather stunned to hear about this latest travail. Another is the school psychologist, whom I was most grateful to find fully on our side. She was one of those who would like to take the stand for us."

"The others?"

"Mostly attached to you, sir. I could barely get your secretary off of the phone, she was so horrified by the reason I was calling."

"How much did you tell people?"

"I merely said that Master Dick was in the hospital with appendicitis. I tried to focus the conversation on the complaints being lodged by the Child Protective Services office, since that was largely the reason I was calling."

"Good. The last thing we need is for the media to come sniffing around more than usual."

"Agreed, Master Wayne." He fell silent as Bruce drew near the bottom of the bowl. "There is one other thing."

"…What?" he asked, struck by the unusual tone in the older man's voice.

"I spoke with Dr. Thompkins, of course. She was the first person I dialed after consulting with your legal team, who," he continued gently when he saw a glint of hope enter Bruce's eyes, "agreed completely with the advice given to us by Dr. Montoya in regards to attempting to contact the young master."

"Oh," he deflated slightly. "What did Leslie say?"

"Beyond berating me nearly a quarter of an hour for not calling her out last night, sir?"

"…Yes," he nodded guiltily.

"She informed me that she spoke with Dr. Montoya before we did."

"What?!" A silver soup spoon clattered loudly against the tile floor as Bruce dropped it in surprise.

"Apparently Dr. Montoya did her clinicals in Dr. Thompkins' office. They worked together for three years before Dr. Montoya was offered a position at Memorial, and have remained friends since then."

"So when she saw who she was operating on this morning-"

"Yes. She called as soon as the surgery was complete to inquire if Dr. Thompkins had ever suspected abuse. From what I understand Dr. Montoya was on Mr. Erwin's side of things until she heard Dr. Thompkins' opinion."

"Thank god for Leslie," Bruce breathed. "Montoya doesn't know about…?"

"I don't believe so. I cannot imagine Dr. Thompkins sharing that information unless it was necessary to save one of your lives. If she had, I expect that she would have told me she had done so in order to put us on our guard. It sounded to me as if Dr. Thompson's conviction that Master Dick is not an abused child was sufficient for Dr. Montoya."

"Well, that explains why she stood up for us this afternoon. That, and her general dislike of Erwin."

"She was rather our champion earlier today, sir." Rising, Alfred came around to collect the dishes.

"Is that everything?"

"Everything of importance, Master Wayne."

"Fine. I'm going to the cave."

"Patrol?"

"Probably not tonight. I have some research to do. I'll let you know if I change my mind." _It depends on how quickly I can hunt down that bastard who split my kid's appendix,_ he thought darkly. "Dinner was good," he added. "We should have that more often."

"It isn't one of Master Dick's preferred dishes, sir. I try to avoid making it when he's at home, much as I skirt serving seafood-based courses when you join him for dinner."

"Hey, I like fish occasionally."

"Yes, but Master Dick likes squid, cuttlefish, and snails in addition to the more common aquatic creatures that you have shunned as long as I've known you."

"…How can he _eat_ that stuff?" he shook his head, wrinkling his nose.

The corner of Alfred's lip twitched upwards. "He seems to enjoy it best in paella," he said a little wistfully. He didn't deem it necessary to inform Bruce that on several occasions in the last six months or so he'd allowed a _very_ small glass of wine to be consumed alongside the Mediterranean dishes the teen seemed to crave constantly. After all, the man was never home on those occasions, and educating the palate was still a form of education, so why spoil the fun? "Will you be sleeping in your own room tonight, Master Wayne?" he asked to cover his reverie.

"…Probably not, Alfred."

"Very good, sir. I wish you luck in your research this evening."

"Thanks." He turned to head towards the cave, but the butler called him before he could take more than a few steps. "Hmm?" he asked, turning to face him again.

"We'll get him back, sir. He'll be home and well in no time at all."

Bruce took a deep breath and met the other man's eyes, finding a reflection of his own worry and anger looking back at him. "I hope you're right, Alfred," he whispered huskily. _I really do, because I don't know what I'll do if we don't._


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: It feels like another two chapter day. I know some of you are ready to check back in on Dick; that, I promise, will be this story's version of Saturday morning cartoons.**

Bruce Wayne's legal team was nothing if not efficient. Thanks to a couple of favors being called in, they were standing in a courtroom by Tuesday afternoon, waiting for the judge to arrive so that a preliminary hearing could determine whether there was sufficient cause to further investigate the charges being made by CPS. Bruce hoped fervently that everything would be thrown out, leaving Erwin with no way to keep him from Dick. When the Honorable Carl Leavering entered, however, his stomach sank. Leavering had presided over another of their face-offs with Social Services, an early duel that the City of Gotham had very nearly won. He glanced down the table at Keith Jones, who had been part of his representation in previous custody battles and was presenting his case this time around. _Didn't you know about this?_ his face asked accusingly.

_Sorry,_ Keith shrugged back. _I don't know what's going on, either._

"I see that we have Gotham Child Protective Services versus Bruce Wayne this morning," Leavering began, looking over the docket. "…Again. This was supposed to be handled by Judge Thackeray, but due to the parties involved it and the rapidity with which everything was filed it was deemed more prudent that I take over. As a result, I'm now overbooked. I suggest that we resolve this quickly. Mr. Erwin, are you representing CPS yourself?" he asked, surprised. The city paid lawyers to stand in court and present evidence, after all.

"Yes, Your Honor. I prefer to explain my findings personally."

"Are you qualified to do so?" There wasn't technically a rule against it, but it still struck him as strange.

"I never passed the bar, Your Honor, but I've performed this role successfully in many other cases."

"…Then I suppose you may begin."

"Thank you, Your Honor. You will find in the brief I provided several photographs of the injuries with which Richard Grayson, ward of Bruce Wayne, was admitted to Gotham Memorial on Sunday. I've also provided a list of previous attempts by my office to remove the child from the highly inappropriate situation he was placed in six years ago. As you can see, he's amassed quite a few scars in that time, more, in my experience, than even a very active boy could manage on his own. His admission to the hospital this weekend was due to a ruptured appendix and subsequent peritonitis and early sepsis, which would not have occurred had he been brought in for treatment sooner. Mr. Wayne claims that the child did not say anything to them or otherwise evince the fact that he was in pain, which CPS finds difficult to believe given the agony that comes along with appendicitis, let alone with the complications that followed in this case. We are requesting a full hearing to determine the suitability of Wayne Manor as a home for Richard Grayson based on evidence of abusive behavior and physical neglect."

"I see," Leavering nodded, sorting through the documents CPS had provided. "What is your client's response, Mr. Jones?" he addressed to Keith.

"Your Honor, Mr. Wayne's guardianship of Richard Grayson has been questioned numerous times, as evidenced by the list in your possession. Despite the fact that every aspect of life in Wayne Manor has been intruded on and exhaustively investigated, including several full hearings of the type requested by CPS in this instance, no just cause has ever been found to remove the boy. Mr. Wayne and his butler, the other primary occupant of Wayne Manor, were both questioned by Mr. Erwin regarding the injuries pictured in the file, and provided the most truthful and complete answers that they could. We have supplied several affidavits from various persons attesting to the fact that they have never suspected and do not believe that any form of abusive behavior is being acted out against the child. We have also learned that Mr. Erwin has a penchant for stirring up trouble, often alleging abuse when there is not sufficient cause to do so, as he has done in this case. We consider this investigation to be a waste of taxpayer money, and ask that it be ceased immediately. We further request that any and all injunctions currently prohibiting Mr. Wayne from any contact with Richard Grayson be removed, for the best interest of them both."

"…What was the explanation behind the abdominal injury?" Leavering queried, examining a photo with a wince.

"They gave none," Erwin simpered.

"Mr. Jones?"

"There was none for them to give, Your Honor. Neither Mr. Wayne nor Mr. Pennyworth were aware of the injury until immediately before the boy was taken to the hospital."

"Hmm." He was silent for several minutes, perusing the file. "What does the child say happened?" he asked Erwin.

"I haven't spoken with him yet, Your Honor. I have tried on several occasions, but the surgeon in charge of his case has consistently blocked my access to him on the grounds that he is not stable enough."

Bruce's head shot up; that was the first specific thing about Dick's condition that they'd heard since Sunday. They'd been calling the hospital multiple times a day to ask after him, and each time had been told merely that he was fine. Their entreaties for more specific information got them nowhere, and Dr. Montoya always seemed to be in surgery and unavailable to speak with them. _It's been two days, but he's not stable enough to answer a few questions?_ he fretted, wondering if the sepsis had gotten worse. _Or, _another part of his mind suggested, _Dr. Montoya is stalling him, trying to give Dick time to get well without having to face that snake._ He much preferred the latter idea.

"I see. Well, Mr. Jones, I agree with you that abuse seems far-fetched given how extensively this issue has already been researched. However, I'm afraid that I'm not comfortable dismissing these allegations until we can at least hear Richard's side of things, especially seeing as how right now no one seems to have an answer as to how he received the abdominal wound. I'm sure your client understands that I have to act in the best interest of the child?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Bruce choked out. _This isn't in his best interest!_ he screamed mentally. _This is bullshit! _

"Very well, then. We'll arrange for another preliminary hearing as soon as an interview can be conducted, and I'll render a decision regarding a full hearing at that juncture." He stood up to leave, but stopped when Bruce leaned towards the microphone and spoke.

"Your Honor?" It was risky, addressing the judge when he had clearly said everything that he meant to say, but he had to ask. "Please, Your Honor, is there any way I can see him?"

Leavering's peevish expression at being stopped evaporated when he realized he had forgotten about the other request that had been made. "Ah, my apologies for not elucidating on your second point, Mr. Wayne." He sat back down and glanced over a few forms. "Mr. Erwin? I believe you indicated that you will be requesting a court-appointed third party chaperone for visits between Mr. Wayne and his ward until such a time as this matter is resolved, is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"…You noted in your complaint that you fear there will be an attempt by Mr. Wayne or others associated with him to influence what the boy will tell you?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I think it's highly likely that they will attempt to do so."

"Very well. I'll expect to see the chaperone paperwork on my desk no later than noon Thursday. I do not like the idea of keeping an obviously worried parent from their child's sickbed any longer than absolutely necessary."

"…Yes, Your Honor," Erwin gave a forced smile, clearly not pleased that he was being given a deadline.

"Your Honor?" Bruce ventured again. Keith was staring at him in shock, gesturing for him to cease and desist before he got them thrown out, but he persisted. "Dick has nothing with him. There was no time before we left for the hospital, and we were advised not to send or deliver anything to him without explicit permission. May I at least arrange to have a few personal items taken to him by the hospital staff?"

Leavering considered the request. "Have the things you would like him to receive delivered to my chambers, and I'll review them. Anything that I feel may be objectionable will be returned to you, but otherwise I will ensure that they make it to him."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Bruce whispered, his eyes squeezing shut. _Maybe I can at least get a letter to him._ Sitting in the cave on Sunday night, he had considered donning his costume and going to Memorial as Batman. The problem with that, he'd decided, was that Batman had no good reason for being there were he to be caught in Dick's room. A single case of child abuse, even with a high roller like Bruce Wayne as an involved party, wasn't the kind of thing people expected the vigilante to pursue. Furthermore, because it was common knowledge that Batman had rescued Wayne's kidnapped ward on several previous occasions, his presence could be misread as an attempt by the billionaire to communicate with the teen. Worse yet, it could be viewed as an attempt to spirit him away in the dead of night. Even if he came up with a story about needing to speak with him regarding another case, the mere fact that Dick had been in a position to witness the type of crimes that Batman usually investigated would be another tally on Erwin's side of the scoreboard. He'd wanted to put the cowl on so much it had hurt, but doing so now was just too risky. He wouldn't do anything that could conceivably lose him Dick.

He heard the judge exit, and then felt Keith's hand clap his shoulder. "I can't believe you got away with that. I thought he would chuck you out of here. Still, though, we're getting there, a little bit at a time, Mr. Wayne. At least now you can let him know you're thinking about him. And it sounds like Judge Leavering will make sure it's not too much longer before you can see him, too." The attorney picked up his briefcase. "I'll let you know if there are any new developments on our front."

"Thanks, Keith." Turning to leave as well, he found Erwin standing a short distance away and felt his rage boil up. _No! No,_ he calmed himself. _If you attack him, it's over. Even act like you're going to lay a finger on him, and Dick will be gone forever._ The CPS man gave him a slow smile, looking as if he knew exactly what battle was going on in Bruce's head, and then strode confidently out.

Bruce stood alone in the cavernous court for almost ten minutes, trying to puzzle out how so much had gone so wrong. They were so careful about everything, _so_ careful, but it hadn't helped. It hadn't been enough, and he couldn't think of any further precautions that they could take for the future.

_The future_, he thought moodily. One of the double doors to the room opened, ending his train of thought before it could barrel into a dark tunnel. He raised his head to see that Alfred had slipped inside and was waiting patiently, giving him his distance. Heaving a sigh that echoed through the empty hall, Bruce crossed to him with his hands shoved in his pockets and a pensive expression on his face. "Let's get out of here," he said as he drew even with his butler. "I've got a box to pack."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Let's ramp things up a bit, shall we**, **gentle readers?**

Dick was completely done with waking up in pain. His stomach hurt, his head and especially his sutured lip were pounding, and the spot in his arm where the IV went in itched like crazy. He opened his eyes with a soft moan and looked around hopefully, only to be disappointed in the same way he had been at every awakening since his surgery. No Bruce. No Alfred. No anybody.

He had asked the nurses about it every time he'd been lucid enough when they came around to take his vitals. At first he had thought that maybe the men were coming around when he was sleeping, that he was just missing them, but as time had passed he'd realized his error. The staff was no help, refusing to tell him anything more than that why he was in the hospital, that no one had come by to see him, and that they didn't know of anyone trying to get in touch with him. Casting one last, depressed glance about, he sighed and let his head drop back against the pillows.

_So shunning it is, I guess,_ he thought. _I can't really blame him. He doesn't have time to deal with a partner who's going to blow up an organ every time they're asked to face danger._ He had been thinking about the very last passage he'd read at home a lot over the past four days. On Tuesday, during the first hours of semi-rational thought he'd had in forty-eight hours, he had almost decided that he was crazy for thinking Bruce would no longer want him because of a case of appendicitis. As two more days had dragged on with no word, however, he had slowly reconstructed his conclusion, basing it this time on the evidence at hand instead of on his emotions, just the way Bruce had taught him to.

_Maybe_, he had posited last night, _maybe appendicitis is like a warning sign. No one knows for sure what the appendix does, at least that's what Bruce said when I was memorizing all that fricking Latin for his anatomy lessons. So maybe it's kind of like your adrenal gland, only instead of adrenaline your appendix synthesizes all the chemicals that make you brave and then ships them out to different parts of the body. If it gets messed up or just can't do it any more, it self-destructs to let you know that hey, I'm done making you capable of responding well in a crisis. And that's your sign that you should stop putting yourself in situations where you need to be brave, because your appendix isn't going to be there to back you up. If you keep going into the same things you did before, you'll go chicken, and unless someone or something else comes along and saves you, you'll end up hurt or dead. Maybe it's kind of like super sensitive diabetics if they don't have their insulin, only nobody's figured out a way to inject yourself with courage. _

By the time Thursday rolled around and he'd slept on the idea, it felt perfectly logical. He remembered a kid he'd gone to school with a few years earlier who had been just like all the other boys until the summer he had to have his appendix out. When classes had started up again, he was a completely different person, gangly, acne-prone, and awkward. He had quickly become a scapegoat, teased and bullied by the same people he'd been friends with a few months before. He never stood up for himself, becoming sadder looking with each passing day, until his parents had pulled him out to homeschool him because they feared he would try to commit suicide. _It all correlates,_ Dick had sighed upon recalling that other boy. _I just wish mine hadn't gone out so soon. I thought Batman and Robin would be a team longer. I __wanted_ _us to be a team forever, but…he needs a partner who won't get him killed in a moment of weakness. I want to help, but I don't want him to get hurt because of me. Because of my cowardice._

Still, he had hoped that Bruce would at least come by to tell him personally that he couldn't be Robin since he was doomed to be a wincing, shrinking pansy for the rest of his life. He saw those qualities in everything he did since his appendix went. Each time Dr. Montoya came by to check on him, he wanted to curl up and squirm away from the awful feeling of her fingers prodding his abdomen. When his muscles felt sore, he was afraid to move, knowing it would cause new pain to erupt. He wasn't supposed to get out of bed, so several times a day a nurse would bring him a pan to do his business in; _that_ was so horrifying that he wouldn't have been able to do anything had he not scared himself with the knowledge that they would force a catheter on him if he didn't produce enough. To top it all off, yesterday one of them had offered to bring him a magazine, and he had refused, not because he wasn't bored out of his mind but because he missed Bruce terribly and knew that he'd start crying if he read anything about him or, god forbid, glimpsed a shot of his face. Even _National Geographic _might set him off; the way his luck had been running lately, it would probably be running some huge cover story on bats.

Thinking about his situation made him wish he lived in feudal Japan like Mitsuse Genbei so that he'd at least have the _option_ of committing seppuku. Maybe he could have convinced Bruce to be his second and chop his head off, so that the act could serve as an apology for turning into a coward before he'd even gotten to be much help out on patrol. _All that time he wasted training me. No wonder he's stayed away._ _I wish at least Alfred would come. Maybe Bruce asked him not to. Or maybe he's ashamed of me, too. _A single tear slid down his cheek, but the sound of approaching footsteps stoppered those that had been preparing to follow it.

The man who appeared in the doorway to his room looked familiar, but he couldn't figure out where he'd seen him before. "Hi," he said hesitantly, sincerely hoping that this wasn't a henchman of some past foe who had recognized him and come to get revenge. His stomach tightened at the thought_, _forcing him to gasp, and he wondered when his next round of painkillers was.

"Hello, Richard," the visitor replied, face hidden in shadow. "Mind if I come in?"

"No," he answered. He was still uneasy, but it seemed like a safe bet that someone bent enough on killing him to hunt him down in an ICU wouldn't bother with niceties like asking permission to enter. Besides, it would be a change to have a visitor who wasn't dressed in scrubs. "Have a seat."

"Thank you." Henry Erwin couldn't believe his luck. Disgusted with the stonewalling tactics that Dr. Montoya continued to deploy against him, he'd taken a chance and wandered up to the seventh floor without bothering to call her again. Upon entering the intensive care section, he'd found a single nurse on duty, half-asleep over her paperwork. She'd been so tired that she hadn't even asked his name, merely complaining about having to fill in another department's shift right after her own had ended before directing him to the proper room. Calling him back a second later, she'd asked him to do her a favor and deliver a box someone had sent over for the patient, since he was going there anyway. He'd given her his best smile and agreed, more than happy to relieve her – and Dick Grayson – of the package.

Setting it down now next to the chair he'd pulled up beside the bed, he gave the teen the same grin he'd granted the tired woman at the front desk. "So, Richard, tell me how you're feeling right now?"

"…A little confused, actually," he admitted. Something about this man's smile had put him on back on edge. "I'm sorry, but is that…is that my name written on the box you were carrying?"

Erwin could have kicked himself. Sure enough, he saw when he looked down, the kid's name was etched boldly on the top flap. "It is," he improvised quickly. "I needed copies of your medical records. They gave them to me in this box."

"…Is that why it says 'ICU' right under it? It kind of looks like an address," he pointed out, arching an eyebrow. He hated the way his voice sounded, slurred as it was from the swelling in his lip, and it certainly didn't feel good to talk, but this was getting weird.

"Those are just your records from the last few days," he lied again. "Being in ICU generates a lot of paperwork, kid. You're a bit of a hassle, you know?"

"Yeah, I kind of gathered that," Dick muttered darkly. "Look, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but do I know you? You look really familiar."

"We've never had the pleasure," he grinned again, and Dick caught a glimpse of something sinister in his eyes. "Henry Erwin."

"Mr. Erwin, what exactly are you doing here?"

"Call me Henry."

"_Henry_, what exactly are you doing here? Again, not trying to be rude. Just curious."

"Aah, well, Dick – people call you Dick, right?"

"You can call me Richard." His skin was crawling. _There's something about him I recognize, but from __where__?_

Erwin stumbled for a second. He'd been warned that the kid was no dummy, but it felt like he could see right through his ruse, and that was _not_ what he had expected. He needed the boy to be at least a little pliant, or he wouldn't get anything he could use from him. "Of course, Richard. Whatever you like. Listen, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Let me start over. I'm Henry Erwin." He stretched his hand out across the bed, and Dick, too well trained in etiquette by Alfred, took it, noting as he did the heavy silver ring the man wore on his middle finger. Something pinched slightly in his palm as they shook, but he wrote it off; his body had been twinging in all kinds of weird ways since he'd been stuck in bed and unable to move or exercise. "I'm with Gotham Child Protective Services. I'm here to help you" Erwin continued.

Alarm and exasperation tore through him. "CPS? _Again_?! You've got to be kidding me, man. Look, neither Bruce nor Alfred hit me, starve me, allow me to watch dirty movies, or let me go to bed without brushing my teeth. They don't fight, they don't do drugs, and they don't hold subversive political meetings. Is that enough for you this time around, or should I keep going?" _They might not want me back, but there's no way I'm going to just sit here and let people think and say awful things about them. Especially since none of them are true._

"Whoa, now, Richard, let's not fly off the handle. I know you've had to deal with my office a lot, and I'm sure that's frustrating."

"It's more than frustrating, Mr. Erwin. It…it pisses me off." It was bizarre; he _was_ exceptionally angry that Social Services was sticking their nose into his life again, but with every passing second he found his passion fading further and further into the background. _What the hell?_ his bewildered mind protested in the last moment before he relaxed completely, slipping into a quietly buzzing calm.

"There, now," Erwin smiled as he watched the resentment fade from the teen's gaze. "Now that you've got that off your chest, let's have a little talk, shall we?"

"…Sure."

"I'm going to turn this recorder on. Is that all right?"

"…Sure." He clicked it on.

"Okay, Richard. Now, you're sure it's okay that I record our conversation?"

"…Sure."

"If there's anything you don't want to answer, you just say so, all right?" It all had to seem perfectly legal, just like with the other ones. He'd probably catch shit for sneaking in rather than going through Dr. Montoya, but that wouldn't be enough to have the recording dismissed. Now that the modified sedative had taken effect, he could guide their conversation easily. A little editing, if necessary, and he would have a tidy package of evidence to hand over to the court.

"…Sure."

"Tell me, Richard, how long have you lived with Bruce Wayne?" He'd found in the past that it worked best to start off easy, get their addled little brains used to answering his questions unhesitatingly before he dove into the more complex topics.

"…Six years."

"Do they feed you regularly?"

"…Yeah."

"You have your own space, a bedroom?"

"…Yeah."

"And how do you feel, living there? Do you feel welcome, wanted?"

There was a long pause. "…I used to," Dick said in a small voice.

_Bingo._ "You don't anymore?"

"…I don't know."

"What makes you feel less welcome at Wayne Manor, Richard?"

"…Everything's changed."

"Anything in particular?"

"…I screwed up. I broke the rules."

"What rule did you break?"

"…I'm supposed to tell him when I need to stop. I'm supposed to, but I didn't, and I got hurt."

"You're supposed to tell him when you need to stop doing what, Richard?"

"…Whatever we're doing. I'm supposed to tell him if something hurts." Erwin was getting excited; this was pure gold, although he wished the boy would go into more detail. He was tough, this one was; the other children had blabbed their hearts out at every question, but he was being conservative with the particulars. At least his emotions were clearly legitimate. _At this rate I won't have to edit at all,_ he thought gleefully. It was a struggle to keep the pleasure out of his voice when he asked the next question.

"Are you afraid of him, Richard?"

"…I'm afraid he won't want me anymore."

"As a son, you mean?"

"…Yes. And…as a partner." Erwin was glad he wasn't doing a video recording of this interview, because his delight would have been far too obvious.

"A partner in what, Richard?"

"…So much," the boy cried out, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "…Make it stop? It hurts. I don't want to be in bed any more, Bruce. Make it stoooop…" He was holding his head now, his eyes rolling, and Erwin knew that he was starting to overcome the controlling effects of the serum. It was wearing off much faster than it had in any of the others he'd had to use it on, but then this boy had been suspicious before he'd been drugged, giving him a stronger foundation from which to launch an offensive. He needed just one more thing from him…

"One last question, Richard. Who hit you?"

"…What do you want from me?"

"Who hit you?"

"…Why do you look so familiar?" _Damn. Going to have to make a cut after all,_ Erwin grimaced.

"Richard, who hit you?" he tried a final time.

"…I don't _know_! Leave me alone. Bruce…"

"Would you like me to call a nurse for you?"

"…Bruce, I'm sorry...I failed you…so _useless_…"

The last thing he let be recorded was the slight tone that sounded when he pressed the call button. Placing the buzzer at the now sobbing teen's side, he picked up the box, pushed his chair against the wall, and left quickly, headed for the back staircase. There was no reason to fear that the boy would say something to the nurse; the aftereffects of the sedative were an immediate deep sleep, very little memory, and a general lethargy that could go on for days after the drug was administered. By the time he felt like talking again, he probably wouldn't even recall that he'd had a visitor.

The RN who rounded the corner in response to the call had just come on shift, relieving her exhausted colleague, who had reported nothing unusual on the floor. She was startled to find Dick in such an awful state, moaning and begging his guardian's name, completely unsoothable. He'd been so cooperative and polite up to that point in spite of his illness that she could only attribute the change to intense discomfort. His chart indicated that he was due for another round of painkillers, so she didn't hesitate to give them to him before checking his stitches and taking his vitals, frowning at the high temperature he couldn't seem to shake. It was technically only a low-grade fever, but it was up a little bit from the last round, and on top of everything else his body was trying to repair it was cause for concern. By the time she had finished making her notes, her patient was unconscious again, knocked out, she assumed, by the strong cocktail of drugs she'd poured into his veins. Smiling at him softly – _you're going to be a real ladykiller in a few more years, sweetie_ – she pulled the blankets up and turned down the lights.

She never had any idea that someone had been in the room with him less than a minute before she arrived.


	13. Chapter 13

Friday morning dawned gray and cloudy, with thunder rumbling ominously overhead. It matched Bruce's mood perfectly as he leaned against one of the wide windows of his office, staring at the sprawling campus of Gotham Memorial a mile away. He'd spent a lot of time in this exact position over the last few days, but he still couldn't decide which window to focus on. The thought of bringing in a pair of binoculars had occurred to him, but the idea of someone walking in unannounced and catching him ogling out at the city had made him reconsider. 'Peeping Tom' wasn't a footnote that he was interested in adding to his already gray reputation.

Every night since Sunday had found him down in the cave, compiling information on Henry Erwin and the runaway guard. Erwin was squeaky clean: Gotham born, poor, he'd worked his way through college and one year of law school before he dropped out and started up with CPS. There was very little else out there that had seemed helpful. Bruce's guess was that the only reason they hadn't crossed paths with him and his absurdly high rate of success in removing children from their parents before now was that the agent been attached to Memorial more or less since Dick had come to the manor.

The guard had been a different story, although not much less frustrating. Jeffrey Lejaune had a long rap sheet which included a lot of dropped charges for picking up cops posing as prostitutes and a couple of plea bargains that had gotten him out of doing time for soliciting minors. There was one kidnapping attempt, but he'd been acquitted due to lack of evidence. He'd been hired on by the company tasked with protecting credit card information six months before, despite his record, for the simple reason that they were guarding numbers, not people. Dominic Pezzoli had been pulling the strings from above on the heist, Bruce was certain of that much; Lejaune didn't seem bright enough to manage a successful candy bar theft. That was where his knowledge ended. As soon as Lejaune had put Robin out of commission, he'd disappeared without a trace back into the underbelly of Gotham.

His desk phone rang, forcing him away from his mental review of the evidence. "Yes?" he asked, expecting it to be his secretary wanting to push through a call for him.

"Mr. Wayne, it's Keith Jones." The man sounded ragged, almost out of breath, and Bruce instantly stiffened.

"What's happened?"

"Erwin took some sort of new evidence in to Judge Leavering this morning. I don't know what it was, but I'm guessing he got in to speak with Dick, because the second preliminary hearing has been moved up to two o'clock this afternoon."

"…Are you sure?"

"Yes. Leavering called me himself to let me know to be prepared."

"Prepared for _what_?"

"He didn't say. He said he hadn't heard the specifics, but that the rundown Erwin gave him was sufficient to move the hearing up."

"Christ." He slumped into his chair. "What can we do? It's almost noon already."

"I've got three people making phone calls. If this goes to a full hearing, we're going to try and pack the witness stand with every person who wrote an affidavit out on your behalf earlier this week. Alfred gave me a few additional names too, out of town folks that he thinks might be willing to come in to testify. I'm putting together as vacuum-sealed of a case as I can, Mr. Wayne. I wish I knew what Erwin pulled out of his ass; without that knowledge it could be difficult to defend against him today."

"Just do your best, Keith."

"Will do."

He had barely replaced the handset on the cradle when it rang again. "WHAT!?" he exploded, snatching it back up.

"Master Wayne, I would advise you to turn on your television to channel seven."

"Alfred, what-"

"Channel seven, Master Wayne. I'll hold." Setting the phone down, he stared at it for a long second before he reached into a drawer for the remote. He had thought he knew the sound of his butler's voice in any and all possible situations; never, though, had he heard him sound so numb. The TV blared to life, startlingly loud, and he immediately turned it down. Flipping to seven and reading the ticker along the bottom of the screen, his mouth dropped open.

_New custody proceedings filed in the case of Wayne ward, Richard Grayson…Allegations of sexual and physical abuse at Wayne Manor …No comment this hour from head of Wayne Enterprises…Preliminary hearing set to begin at 2pm…More information to follow as it becomes available…_

It repeated itself three or four times before Bruce managed to grope for the phone, his eyes still riveted to the damning script scrolling by. "Alfred…?" he breathed.

"I'm sure you want to come home, sir, but doing so right now would give people the wrong idea. You're best served by staying in your office until 1:30 and making no comments to anyone. At that time I will pick you up in the parking garage." He paused. "Is that acceptable, Master Wayne?"

"Yes, but I…where did the…the sexual abuse part…where did that come from?"

"I don't know, Master Wayne, but I fear that he may have twisted something Master Dick said."

"…I'll see you at 1:30, Alfred."

"Yes, sir."

After calling up to his secretary to advise her that he would not be taking calls from anyone except Keith, Alfred, or the hospital, he shut off the television and laid his head on his arms. Then, struck by a thought, he dialed Gotham Memorial. "Dr. Montoya, pediatric surgery," he said roughly when asked who he was calling for.

On the fourth ring, just as he was giving up hope, she answered. "Dr. Montoya speaking."

"This is Bruce Wayne."

"I don't know what happened, Mr. Wayne," she said immediately. "I just happened to walk by the surgical lobby and saw the television. I don't know where that man got such an idea; while I could see him trying to make a case for physical abuse, there was absolutely no sign whatsoever of anything sexual. I know that because it's part of our standard procedures to check for any sign of such mistreatment in all cases sent up to the CPS liaison. I did the exam personally, in Richard's case. He has no grounds for this, Mr. Wayne, and I'll swear to it in court a thousand times."

"Is Dick all right, Dr. Montoya?" Now that he actually had her on the phone, finding out more about the teen's condition took precedence over the fact that he was being painted as a pedophile on the airwaves of Gotham. "We've been calling, but no one would tell us anything. Erwin said something in court on Tuesday about him being too unstable to answer questions?"

"He's doing much better, Mr. Wayne. On Tuesday I felt he was still too weak to withstand the kind of interrogation that Erwin likes to put children through. I've continued telling him that ever since in the hopes of getting Richard a bit more time to get his feet under him, but he is substantially better. The sepsis is gone, and he's slowly pushing back the peritonitis, although he is still running a fever. He had a minor setback this morning, I understand, but the on-duty nurse reported that it was a case of there being too long of a gap in his pain control doses. Once they gave him an analgesic he calmed right down. We're planning to move him out of ICU as soon as his temperature drops below 100 degrees."

_Well, at least there's __some__ good news today,_ Bruce thought. _I just wish I was doing as well on my battlefront as Dick is on his. _"It seems like Erwin got in to see him."

"If he did, he did _not_ have my permission, which he's supposed to."

"Mm. Good to know. Listen, was a box from me delivered to Dick? Judge Leavering said he'd send it over after he went through it."

"I'm afraid I don't know. I can inquire with the nurses and get back to you this afternoon, though."

"If you would. I'd just like to know that he got it."

"Of course. If you don't mind, Mr. Wayne, I'm due in surgery in twenty minutes and still have to scrub. Was there anything else?"

"…No. Nothing pressing."

"Well, good luck in court. I would offer to relay a message to Richard, but I fear even the conversation we've just had might hurt your cause if the wrong person finds out about it."

"I understand. I don't want to risk it, but thank you again."

"You're welcome."

The office was blissfully silent for almost a full minute before the phone rang again. Sighing and rubbing at his temples, he placed it on speakerphone. "Yes?"

"Master Wayne, Mr. Kent called for you. He would like you to call him back immediately."

"…Did he say anything else, Alfred?"

"No, sir. Just that."

"Great. Thanks." A stream of curses fled his mouth as he pulled up the reporter's number in his mobile and listened to it dial and ring. "Clark?"

"Bruce. Hello."

"Tell me this isn't serious." _Tell me this isn't JLA associated,_ he thought. _My world is crashing down around my ears, so I don't really have time for anything else to do the same._

"I think most people would consider accusations of sexual abuse of a minor to be pretty serious."

"…Well, that traveled fast."

"The national stations picked it up, and it's all over the Internet. Even if the words 'Wayne Sex Scandal' hadn't just jumped to the top of every major trending list, I would have heard about it before long. It's one of the perks of spending days in a newsroom. Sometimes you find out your friends are in trouble almost before they do." He paused, his voice softening. "What's going on?"

He explained everything he dared to over the phone, stopping once or twice to keep his voice from cracking. After he finished, there was silence on the line. "Clark?"

"I'm coming up there."

"That's not necessary," the billionaire said immediately.

"Yes, it is. You'll never admit to it, Bruce, but you are a goddamn mess right now, and with good reason. Even if I didn't consider myself your friend, I would come for Dick. That boy has had two too many parents taken from him already, and I will not stand idly by and watch him lose another." Neither of them spoke for a moment. "I'm leaving on the next flight. Tell Alfred not to worry about picking me up; I'm sure he has more than enough going on right now. Cabs are cheap in Gotham, anyway, so I'll feel like I'm getting a steal."

"Clark-"

"Bruce. Shut up." The line went dead.

Overhead, the storm broke open.


	14. Chapter 14

Leavering picked up his gavel, then put it back down. It wasn't necessary to call for order; all of the players were in place and seemed ready to begin. "It's now two o'clock, gentlemen," he said by way of beginning. "I'm sure the press outside will have already begun taking bets, so we may as well start on time, since everyone appears to be here. Mr. Erwin? Presenting your own evidence again today?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Proceed."

"Thank you. The court is already familiar with the basic facts of this case, so I won't reiterate them. Instead, I would like to focus on the much more disturbing angle that I uncovered yesterday morning, during a chat with Mr. Wayne's ward." He produced a recorder and a pair of speakers. "I thought I might be easier to hear with some amplification. The boy was still slurring fairly heavily from the stitches in his lip, and he whispers at times."

"Your Honor," Keith objected, "I have it on good authority that Mr. Erwin failed to follow proper procedure for obtaining that recording." Bruce had filled him in on the conversation he'd held with Dr. Montoya, and the attorney had no plans to let such a good statement go to waste, especially since it might cast doubt on the reliability of his opponent's evidence. "According to Dr. Lorraine Montoya, the physician who has been attending to Richard Grayson's needs since he was admitted, she gave no permission for him to be accessed, let alone interviewed or recorded, due to his continuing fragile state. As of a few hours ago he was still running a temperature of over 100 degrees, which indicates that he may not have been in his right mind when he was speaking with Mr. Erwin."

"If that is the case, Mr. Jones, I'm afraid I would need Dr. Montoya here herself to swear to what you're saying before I could even consider throwing it out. Even then, my doing so would be a questionable decision at best. For now, let's at least hear what he had to say on the matter at hand. Go ahead, Mr. Erwin."

"…I warn you, your Honor, some portions of this are rather heart-wrenching," the CPS man said, wearing a sympathetic mask as he pressed playback.

The first couple of questions were obviously warm-up fodder, but the conversation quickly intensified.

_"Do you feel welcome, wanted?" _Erwin's ersatz kindness assaulted Bruce's ears.

_ "…I used to."_

The billionaire's eyes went wide hearing those misery-laden words in Dick's voice. _Used to?_ _What changed? _

Further snippets of the conversation struck him like blows. _"…Everything's changed…I'm supposed to tell him when I need to stop…" _And then, the worst part; _"I'm afraid he won't want me anymore."_

He blanched at that, and had to grip the table to keep himself from falling a few seconds later when his son began to cry out for him. _How could you ever think I wouldn't want you, Dick?_ _Yes, you broke our rule, but my god. Have I been so distant as to make you think that if you disobeyed one too many times I would throw you out, reject you? I know I'm not exactly affectionate, but…I never would have dreamt that you carried such a fear inside of you. I am so sorry. I am so sorry for anything I did to make you feel that way, and I swear I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure you know better from here on out._

"Mr. Jones," Judge Leavering said in a deadly serious tone after the recording had ended. "Does your client have a response to this new evidence?"

"…Mr. Wayne?" Keith nudged him, trying to get the attention of the man staring at the floor with tears pouring silently down his face.

"Mr. Wayne," Leavering addressed him sharply when Keith's attempts had no effect. "Can you explain what we just heard?"

He swiped at his eyes, knowing that failing to make an excuse could be taken as an admission of guilt. "Out of context," he managed.

"What? I don't understand, Mr. Wayne. Please clarify what you mean."

"It's all…out of context." His brain was gearing up, clicking along over the words, some of which he'd heard without really absorbing, and creating a tangible story, something, _anything_ to explain what had been said without revealing their great secret. "I've been putting a lot of pressure on him lately, especially in regards to school. I pushed him to take as many advanced classes as he could this year, and then I pushed him to study. I guess I didn't really give him much time to be a teenager. I told him at the start of the year that if it got to be too much, if he needed to drop something or take some down time, that I wanted him to tell me. I didn't want to burn him out, I just wanted to see him get everything he could out of his schoolwork. He's so smart." He wiped his face clean of more fresh tears. "He never told me he needed a break, but I was starting to sense that something was wrong. That's why – like I told Dr. Montoya and Mr. Erwin on Sunday – I asked him to leave off studying on Saturday evening and take a walk with me. He agreed, but he didn't say anything about there being a problem, so I let it go. I shouldn't have."

"The boy specifically stated that he's supposed to say when something _hurts_, Your Honor," Erwin pointed out. "Schoolwork isn't fun, but I'd hardly say it causes pain."

"You clearly didn't take college level chemistry, English, calculus, and biology concurrently at age fourteen," Bruce shot back. "Sorry, Your Honor. He also didn't tell me that his stomach was hurting him. I always tell him that physical and mental health are equally important, so it was probably a combination of not saying he needed help with classes and not saying anything about the physical pain he was in that he was referencing."

"…What did he mean by partner, Mr. Wayne?" Leavering asked, his eyes riveted to Bruce's.

"I told him that if he did well in school this year I would let him come with me to the office over the summer, start to get a feel for the business. It'll be his someday, after all, at least if he wants it. I filled his head with dreams, Your Honor. With _my_ dreams. Dreams where he does phenomenally in school, goes to a good college, and then comes in as my full business partner when he graduates. I crammed his imagination with that, then put so much pressure on him about keeping his grades up that he probably thought getting a less than stellar score on a test would be all it took to make me change my mind about the rest of it. I've been out a lot of evenings the last couple of months, so he rarely had the opportunity to say anything and I wasn't around enough to see that he was troubled. I admit, Your Honor, that this is completely my fault. I drove him too hard, let him develop the wrong ideas, and then wasn't there when he needed me. I know what he said sounds terrible, out of context like it is. But I would never, ever hurt him, especially not the way Mr. Erwin is alleging."

_Bruce, that was brilliant_, he heard Dick's voice congratulating him in the back of his mind. The story was the perfect mix of truth and deceit; he _had_ pushed him to take tough classes, he _had _threatened to reduce his patrol time if his grades slipped, and he _had _entertained visions of Dick's future at his side, partners in both their day and night undertakings. While he knew the teen had been busy keeping up with everything, he'd hyperbolized the academic stress angle; Dick was working ahead of the rest of the class in math and biology, and was right on target in everything else. As for his son's future, he had kept his dreams to himself, not wanting him to feel pressured to go into business if he wanted something else as a career. The only question now was whether or not the court would find his explanation more plausible than Erwin's.

"Your Honor," Erwin broke in as Bruce finished speaking, "that's a very pretty story that Mr. Wayne has spun for us, but really, the overwrought teen drowning under a wave of school work, social life and parental expectations bit is just a little too predictable and a little too overdone. You heard the recording, Your Honor; this boy was clearly trying to tell me that he has been undergoing sexual abuse at the hands of Mr. Wayne. I have dealt with a large number of similar cases, and it is not uncommon for children, especially ones as intelligent as Richard Grayson, to talk around the problem and use euphemisms. It's difficult for _adults_ to come out and say they were raped, and for young people being mistreated by parental figures it's even harder. It's actually quite impressive that he was able to as clear about things as he was."

"Your Honor," Keith broke in right back at him, "Dr. Montoya is prepared to state that she found no signs of sexual abuse on the child when she examined him. Dr. Thompkins, the Wayne family physician, can also testify to having never found evidence of such treatment in her regular visits with him."

"Both witnesses are sketchy at best, Your Honor."

"…Can you offer an example of their 'sketchiness,' Mr. Erwin?" Leavering asked, his brow knitted.

"Dr. Thompkins has been a friend of the Wayne family since before the current Mr. Wayne was born. She is the person most likely to lie in defense of him, with the possible exception of Alfred Pennyworth. I would posit that the fact that Richard Grayson is not Mr. Wayne's biological child, and therefore automatically part of the family she's trying to protect, would simply make it easier for her to do so. The Wayne Foundation is also the largest contributor to her clinic, which she runs in one of the most economically distressed areas of this city. Bruce Wayne's displeasure is not something she can afford to incur. While Mr. Wayne's donations to Gotham Memorial, Dr. Montoya's employer, are much less essential to that hospital's operations than they are to those of Dr. Thompkin's clinic, they are still substantial. Even if Dr. Montoya is not facing pressure from above in this matter, she is also a single mother of three who hasn't received a child support payment in ten years. Having Mr. Wayne in her debt would be remarkably useful for someone in her position."

"At this rate, Your Honor, Mr. Erwin would have us discredit everyone who might step forward to testify on the basis that they're either friends of the family or looking for a payoff down the road," Keith protested.

"Everyone has their price, Your Honor. Bruce Wayne has the capital to meet almost any price. That is a material fact of this case, no matter how inconvenient it might be for Mr. Jones' defense. Plus, while I did use the word 'rape' a minute ago, I would point out that there are plenty of ways to sexually abuse someone that don't leave physical evidence for any longer than the length of a shower. Two doctors finding nothing doesn't automatically mean nothing is occurring."

"I've heard enough," Leavering stopped them, raising a hand. "Mr. Wayne, I would very much like to believe your story. In fact, I sincerely hope that it is true, and that the truth of it is able to be validated by this court. What I hope, however, cannot be allowed to affect my decision here today. I want to hear from the rather large group of witnesses that Mr. Jones is lining up, I want to hear Mr. Erwin's objections – substantiated by documents next time, if you please – to each of those people, and most importantly I want to hear from Richard Grayson. The live version, not the recorded one. Obviously that cannot occur until he is healthy enough to take the stand. Until such a time, I am interested in keeping him from experiencing any undue pressure from either side of this argument, not only for his own good but for the value of any statements he may make in my courtroom. As such, I am ordering that neither CPS nor anyone directly associated with Bruce Wayne, Wayne Enterprises, etc., etc., have any contact with the boy. No messages are to be passed, no phone calls or visits to be made without explicit permission from this court."

"Your Honor, _please,_" Bruce begged, his eyes growing hot again. _Let me see my son!_ welled up inside of him, threatening to break out in a shriek.

"Mr. Wayne, I let you get away with interrupting me twice before. Just now makes three. I will not give you a fourth opportunity." He sat for one more second, giving Bruce an almost pitying look, then stood and strode from the room. The moment he had disappeared Erwin swept up his files and also left, whistling.

"I _hate_ that foul son of a bitch," Bruce half-sobbed, his fists balling as the door shut behind the CPS agent.

"I don't think anyone would blame you, Mr. Wayne, but I'd still keep that to yourself. And for the love of god, quit interrupting the judge!" Keith snapped his briefcase shut. "As your legal representative in this matter, I'm going to leave you with one piece of advice to follow this weekend; don't screw up. Don't throw one of those parties you're infamous for, don't spend a bunch of time hanging around in clubs, and most importantly, _don't_ try to contact Dick, in any way. Don't even ask Dr. Montoya to say hello for you. Doing any of those things will lose you this case."

"I understand, Keith. I'm not going to do anything like that. I won't risk getting him back." _I just want to talk to him, even if it's only on the phone. That's all I want, and it's the one thing that will do the most harm to my chances of getting him back. If he got my letter, maybe that will be enough to let him know what's going on and…and how much I miss him. How much I love him._

"Good." With that, the attorney departed.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred spoke as he drew up to his elbow and found him fighting tears again. "I'm afraid there's a veritable wall of reporters waiting for you on the steps."

"…We'll go out the back, then."

"They're there, as well."

"Jesus," he sighed. "Fine, then they can take all the pictures of my misery that they want as I walk by. I have things to do." _Namely go back over everything I have on Erwin, and branch out from there. I'm missing something, I know I am. _"Clark's coming in tonight. I tried to convince him not to. He told me to shut up," he said the last a bit wonderingly.

"One of the guest rooms is already prepared, sir."

"Good." Straightening and rubbing his eyes one more time, he grimaced. "C'mon, Alfred. Let's face the vultures." _I might be running out of hope fast, but I won't stop fighting for him until the day I die. _


	15. Chapter 15

"Hello, Alfred," Clark Kent greeted as he stepped in from the pouring rain. "Sorry about the puddle."

"Don't trouble yourself over it, Mr. Kent. Heaven knows Master Dick brings enough of them inside. Cleaning this one up may serve as a nice trip down memory lane."

Clark was a little surprised at the butler's open attitude this evening. For all that he had spent plenty of time as a guest of the manor, Alfred was always the ever-formal servant towards him. The only person he had seen the man give a full smile to was Dick, although he supposed that Bruce probably earned one on occasion. _Ah,_ he realized as he handed over his sodden coat. _Dick._ "Do you mind telling me what happened at the hearing today, Alfred? I'd like to know what I'm walking into." _And you, I think, need to talk to someone who isn't equally eaten up by this._

The butler hung the jacket silently, then stood still, seemingly holding onto the closet rod for support. "It was quite possibly the most dreadful thing I've ever heard," he admitted. "I can only imagine the intensity with which Master Wayne must be feeling it. I don't know how that Erwin man got inside our boy's head so quickly, to make him bare such feelings, but…if he truly believes what he said he was afraid of, then we have failed him terribly. To think that he wouldn't be wanted in this house…"

"What exactly _did_ Dick say? I assume it was a recording?"

Alfred nodded, remembering the difficulty he'd had trying to keep a sober mien as he'd sat in the spectator section of the court and listened to that sweet, familiar voice crying out, begging to be forgiven for some unknown misdeed. Every fiber of his being had strained towards the recorder, wishing that he could run forward, scoop the tiny machine up, and through some strange magic find himself holding the miserable-sounding young man he wanted so desperately to reassure.

He gave Clark a few examples, never turning around to face him. The new arrival suspected that it was because he didn't want him to see the emotions tangling on his face. "…Is Bruce in the cave?" he asked after a few awkward moments.

"Yes."

"Thanks, Alfred. I'll go talk to him, see what I can do." To his surprised, the red-eyed Englishman turned to him and touched his sleeve.

"…Thank god you've come, Mr. Kent. I'm afraid he's going to do something very foolish, something that I won't be able to prevent."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, sir. I've never seen him quite like this before. He has an absurd level of fortitude, but he is still a man. He _can_ break, whether he will admit it to himself or not. Losing Master Dick would be one of the very few things that I believe would push him over that edge."

Hearing that, Clark nodded. "That's exactly why I'm here, Alfred. I'll do whatever I can."

They barely spoke over the dinner Alfred had announced five minutes after Clark's arrival, each lost in his own thoughts. Clark glanced up at the man seated across from him several times, but Bruce merely stared at his plate, picking idly at his food without putting any of it in his mouth.

"Run through it all again, Bruce," he ventured finally. He was running the risk of pissing him off, but making him repeat the story would at least get him talking. _Maybe while he's telling me he'll forget that he's not hungry and eat something._

With a sigh, Bruce repeated what he'd said on the phone, this time adding the details about Batman and Robin's last patrol together, then launched into a description of the research he had spent the week doing. Winding down, he covered his face with his hands. "I'm losing him, Clark. I can feel it," he whispered.

"You will _not_ lose him."

"You weren't there today. You didn't hear the way Erwin interpreted what he said. Alfred and I know what Dick was referring to, but no one else in that courtroom does or can. I covered for it as best I could, but…even with witnesses, I don't know that it will be enough. The bastard seems to have a knack for discrediting good people who are trying to do the right thing. Judge Leavering seems like he wants to be on our side, but he's bound by the law and his duty to be as objective as possible in considering the evidence."

"Even if he punches holes in every person who testifies, Bruce, all it's going to take for you to win is for Dick to say his piece. You know he'll stand behind you."

The billionaire shook himself, not wanting to think about what would happen if Dick took the stand and repeated exactly what he'd said on the recording. "Let's go back downstairs. The interview has already been entered into the court system's digital evidence database. You should hear it for yourself. Maybe then you'll understand what I'm facing here."

Clark quailed when he saw that the audio file was already open on one of the cave's computers, paused at the halfway point. "How many times have you listened to this?" he asked.

"…I don't know." The other man didn't meet his eyes, stacking papers and files instead.

"Bruce, you can't sit down here and torture yourself with this."

"I was _analyzing_ it, damn it."

"No you weren't. You wanted to hear his voice, even if it was in a way that would cause you further pain. Admit it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said quietly, refusing to give in regardless of the fact that listening just to hear Dick's voice was exactly what he'd been doing. "Let's just listen to it now, all right?"

He heaved a sigh. "Fine. Play it." Focusing, Clark's certainty that something was very wrong with this case grew alongside the teen's obvious despair and depression. "There's a blip there," he pointed out suddenly. "Go back five seconds and listen."

"_One last question, Richard. Who hit you?"_

Click.

"_I don't __know__!"_

"Did you hear it that time? It's been edited. He cut something out right there, something he didn't want the court to hear." They played the amplified portion again, and this time Bruce heard the millisecond of silence in the otherwise constant background hum of the recording. "You, ah, didn't catch that when you listened to it before, huh?" Clark asked gently.

Bruce glared. "No. I didn't. But now I wonder if he edited the interviews he recorded with some of the other children." They went through a dozen other files that Erwin had collected; every single one had multiple edits, all done well enough that it wouldn't be caught by anyone who wasn't looking for an inconsistency.

"That last one had a recent date on it," Clark commented, leaning over his shoulder to watch the screen.

"…That must be the one he left Dr. Montoya's office to go to court about," Bruce surmised. "Look," he pointed out, pulling up the case docket and highlighting a portion near the end. "It was a full hearing." His stomach lurched. "The parents lost."

"Wait, they held a full hearing on a Sunday? That seems odd. Most courts break for weekends."

"They'll hold emergency hearings on the weekends, if there's compelling evidence. It's rare, but it happens. Plus, it seems like Erwin gets his way a lot when it comes to the Gotham legal system." He read a few lines of court transcript. "He alleged some of the same things in this little girl's case that he's trying in Dick's." He clicked through a few other records. "All of these parents lost their children. Every one of the recordings we listened to, CPS won the case. He took _all _of them."

Clark dropped his hand onto Bruce's shoulder in response to the raised pitch of his voice. "Where are the kids now?" he questioned, wanting to keep him focused. Several minutes passed as they swiftly researched all twelve. "Farmed out to foster families across Gotham. Hmm. That doesn't seem abnormal."

"This does, though. _All twelve_ were reported as runaways within a week of their foster placements."

"Well, if what you said about him tearing good families apart is true, that's not surprising. They were trying to get back to their parents."

"Yes, but Clark, look further. All of the missing child cases are open. They never made it home. They all just vanished."

"Even the most recent one?"

"…She was reported missing this afternoon. She never got on the bus after school. Let's see the circumstances around the others…"

They poured over case after case, file after file, until their eyes were glassy. Sometime shortly after 1am Alfred appeared, his face grave. "Master Wayne. I just received a call from Dr. Montoya."

Bruce's eyes widened, his hands freezing on the keyboard. "Is he all right, Alfred?" _Why else would she be calling in the middle of the night, if something wasn't wrong with my son?_

"She didn't report any change in Master Dick's condition, sir."

"Oh, thank god," he whispered haggardly. "What was it then?" he asked, clearing his throat as unobtrusively as possible.

"She was following up on the conversation you had with her this afternoon. She discovered that Mr. Erwin was let in by a nurse from another department who was covering a shift due to illness. Apparently the message about contacting Dr. Montoya if he tried to come through was not passed along to her, so she thought nothing of it, knowing him to be someone who regularly spoke with injured children."

"Damn it. The lucky little…" he trailed off. "Did she say if Dick got the box, Alfred?"

"That's the worst part of it, sir."

"…What?"

"The box was delivered to the ICU nurse's station first thing Thursday morning by a courier from Judge Leavering. Unfortunately the employee who allowed Mr. Erwin back to see Master Dick asked him to deliver the package for her as well. However, Dr. Montoya found none of the items I described as being intended for him in the room when she visited this afternoon."

"So that little prick stole it," Bruce snarled.

"There's more going on here than just a simple CPS investigation," Clark stated, shaking his head. When Bruce got up suddenly and stormed towards his array of gear, he followed him with his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to see my son," he answered flatly.

"Are you insane? If you try to set foot in that hospital you'll be held in contempt of court. You'll practically be handing him to Erwin."

"Have you been paying attention, Clark?!" Bruce barked, whirling around to face him, his face contorted in a mixture of rage and parental terror. "You just said yourself that there's more going on here than a CPS investigation. That man has won the last dozen cases like this one that he pursued. He has kept me from seeing him for almost a week, and now we learn that he cut the one line of communication I had before Dick even knew it existed. I've been sitting here wondering why he would tell Erwin that I might not want him anymore, but really the question has been why _wouldn't_ he think that? He gets hurt out on patrol and doesn't tell me, which he knows is a big deal, and as a result ends up in the hospital. Then neither Alfred nor I come to see him, send him a note, or try to call. If the hospital staff has been told not to let him know anything about the shit storm we're standing in the eye of, which I would wager every penny I have to my name that they were, then he has _no idea_ that we've been forbidden to contact him. You know Erwin wouldn't have let him in on that fact, especially since Dick's thinking we've abandoned him plays so beautifully into his hand. Right now, my sick child is lying in a hospital feeling completely unwanted and alone, and that is unacceptable. I will not stand for it." He stopped, breathing heavily.

"Bruce, don't do this."

"Are you going to stop me, Clark?" he challenged. They both knew that he could, if he wanted. They also knew it would be an ugly fight.

"…No. I'm not. I think you're making a mistake, but there's a slim chance that you'll get away with it. Sneaking into the largest, busiest hospital in Gotham in the dead of night is exactly the kind of thing that you're best at." He paused. "I'm actually kind of surprised you didn't try it before now."

Grimacing, Bruce began to change. "Until now I thought I still stood a chance of getting him back through the legal system, and I didn't want to risk hurting our case if someone found Batman in his room. After what we've uncovered tonight, though…if we don't get to the bottom of this fast, I can't imagine a scenario in which Erwin won't win. All bets are off on that side of things. Bruce Wayne has done everything he can at this point, and is on the verge of defeat; Batman still has a chance of making this right. I'm taking that chance, for Dick."

"Do you want company?"

"No. I need a few minutes alone with him."

"…Okay," Clark agreed. "Good luck. I'll keep going over this stuff, see what else I can find."

The cowl went on. "Thanks," came a gruff, non-committal answer.

"Batman."

"Yeah?" he turned his head from where he'd been about to get into the car.

"Say hi for me."

"…Yeah."

When he was gone, Clark swiveled around to face the butler, who had watched their argument silently. "Alfred?" he asked, seeing a hopeful look dawning in his eyes as he stared into the black tunnel after Batman.

"I'm very glad to see that he's feeling better now, Mr. Kent. Thank you for that."

"_That's_ better?" he questioned, a bit sarcastically.

"Oh, sir, you have no idea." _He's focused again. He's doing something instead of just wallowing in his own grief and anger. Perhaps I ought to imitate that. _He straightened, his face regaining its usual air. "Shall I prepare some tea for you? Perhaps a light snack, if you'll be working longer?" He knew that there was technically no need for the Kryptonian to eat, but force of habit was a hard thing to resist.

Clark couldn't help but laugh a little. _They're such a strange little family, but it works so well._ "Sure, Alfred. That would be great. Thank you."


	16. Chapter 16

Hanging seven stories over the manicured lawn of Gotham Memorial, Batman was beginning to think he was going to have to go through the much more difficult route of finding Dick from inside the building. He'd had a general idea of which bank of windows on this level were attached to the ICU patient rooms before he started peeking cautiously into each one, but so many of them had their curtains drawn that he may easily have passed by him without realizing. Infiltrating from inside the hospital, even at this time of night, would be far less safe than entering and exiting directly from the poorly lit exterior, but he would do what he had to do.

Glancing into the final room before the building made a ninety degree turn, he froze. One hand let go of the rope holding him against gravity to touch the pane lightly. "Dick," he whispered to the night.

The unlocked window slid open without a sound, and he sent a silent thanks to the building's maintenance department. As soon as he knew there was no one coming down the hall towards them – waxed linoleum was one of the noisiest floorings he'd ever encountered, remarkably useful so long as you weren't the one trying to move across it stealthily – he pushed it shut, not wanting to let in a draft, and moved the few steps to the bed.

The teen was asleep, his skin pale marble in the faint light of medical machinery, dark hair tousled on the stark white pillow. Reaching out, the caped man brushed a lock from his forehead and then let his finger trace his jawline, but it wasn't enough. Glancing towards the half-open door, he removed a glove, tucked it into his belt, and cupped his cheek needily with a bare hand. The contact, so ached for over the last six days, forced a few tears to slip from the bottom of the cowl. He didn't wipe them away.

"Dick," he spoke his name again, quietly. Part of him hated to wake him, but a greater part needed to see him stir, cried out for proof that he was healthier than he had been the last time they'd been in the same room together.

He shifted uncomfortably, moaning softly before long lashes parted and revealed a sliver of sapphire. A few wondering blinks later, his eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up.

"Hush," was all Batman said, holding him down gently.

"Br-Bats. Are you real?" he asked, trembling and gripping at the costumed man's arm. "I'm not dreaming this again?"

"I'm real. I'm right here. Don't get up," he ordered when another attempt was made. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." He touched his face again, this time noting its heat. "You're very warm, Dick."

"I know. They keep trying to give me cold sponge baths." He shuddered.

"Let them. They'll help."

"Awkward, though."

A hint of a grin. "Agreed." His mouth grew serious again as the body under his hand tensed. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, staring up at him as he remembered everything. "I'm sorry I disappointed you. Please, please don't hate me for being a coward now. Please," he whispered the last. His teeth crept out to bite nervously at his lip, then pulled back, accompanied by a hiss, when they touched the swollen line of stitches. "Ow, damn it. Sorry!"

"Stop. Dick, just…stop." He shook his head slowly. "I don't know what you're apologizing for. Look at me." He waited until his gaze was pinned to the slits in the cowl. "You haven't done _anything_ wrong. I don't know what happened or what you were told by that Erwin bastard to make you think that you did something to disappoint me, but I _do not_ hate you. As for you being a coward…" he trailed off. _My god, where did you even get that idea?_ Bending down, he leaned his masked forehead against Dick's and broke one of his own cardinal rules. "My Robin is anything but a coward."

"You don't understand," he mewled back. "I figured it out, I know you can't use me now…"

"_Stop,_" Batman commanded, pulling back and silencing him. "You still have a fever and you're on a lot of medicine. I don't think you know what you're saying, Dick, but when you're home we're going to have a long talk about all of this. Several long talks, if necessary. Okay?"

"…Home?" he asked curiously. "You mean I…I can come home with you?"

"Not yet, you're still too sick. As soon as you're better, though, of course you'll go home." _If I have to tear Gotham apart to do it, you're coming home with me._

"Better? Can they replace it?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "I didn't know that."

"…Replace it?" _What the hell is he talking about? _"Dick?" he queried, seeing his eyelids flutter. "Are you okay?"

He steadied just as Batman was about to push the call button and head for the window. "Batman," he said as clearly as possible around his swollen mouth, his face losing the confusion it had worn a few seconds before.

He understood immediately what had happened. Dick had been pushed aside; Robin was here now, regardless of the lack of costume. _When did he learn to shut himself off like I do?_ the man wondered. _I missed that moment. I feel like I've missed so much lately…_ "Yes?"

"I know why Henry Erwin looked familiar."

"Familiar?"

"He looks just like the hostage, Batman. He looks just like the guy who hit me and ran off."

Processing that, the black-clad figure raised his head, listening. Nothing moved outside the room. "Clarify," he hissed. He had to be certain that this wasn't delirium or medication talking.

"Henry Erwin and the guard who hit me look almost as alike as people say you and I do."

_Goddamn. How did I miss that? _"…Do you remember anything else from when he spoke with you?"

"…He wore a ring. Middle finger, silver, big. Something pinched in my hand when we shook, but…I didn't think it was anything at the time." Robin was fading; Batman could see the clouds slipping back into his gaze. "That's all I remember. That and…a box."

"It was from me," he explained quickly, gratified to see him smile at that.

"I thought maybe, but…" he fell silent, eyes shut.

"…Dick?" There was no answer, and Batman simply sat for a minute, listening as his breathing evened back out into an exhausted sleep. Knowing better than to stay longer, no matter how much he wanted to, he whispered briefly into his ear, hoping his message would get through. "I have to go now, but I'm going to get that son of a bitch, Dick. You are _not_ a coward. You are my son, and you are my Robin, no matter what happens. Don't ever forget that." Distant footsteps reached his ears, drawing nearer. Pulling the blanket up more securely around his shoulders, he clasped the boy against himself for a short second, then made his way back out the window, swinging out of sight just as the door opened and a nurse came in.

_Henry Erwin,_ he swore as his feet hit the ground and he stalked towards the hidden Batmobile, _you will pay for this._


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: I almost forgot it was two-fer Tuesday. Happy reading!**

"Batman," Clark said by way of greeting, watching him step out of the car. "How did it go?"

"Erwin drugged him."

"I know. I've been listening to the recordings again, and I think he drugged all but the youngest two. I don't know what he's giving them, but based on later interviews conducted by other people I would say that it pretty much wipes their memory of everything from the moment they're dosed until up to several days later. One of them had a birthday two days after her interview with Erwin. The nurses threw her a little party, apparently. She didn't remember any of it the next day."

"Christ. I'm amazed he recalled as much as he did tonight, then."

"He's by far the worst injured of any of the kids we've looked at. Maybe the medicine the hospital has him on counteracted what Erwin gave him."

"Maybe. But there's more to it. Dick was an emotional wreck; _Robin_ is the one who recounted everything about Erwin." Finished changing, he took a sandwich from the platter Alfred had brought down a while earlier.

"Like father, like son," Clark muttered.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Did he say anything else?"

"Yes." He dug one-handed through the paperwork strewn across the counter, finally finding what he wanted and smacking two photos down. "I'll be damned. He's right."

"What?"

"He told me that the guard who hit him looks just like Erwin. I don't know how I didn't see it myself – I guess because I was treating the heist and CPS as two separate incidents – but Lejaune bears an awfully close resemblance to Erwin, don't you think?"

Clark looked, and whistled. "They could be brothers."

Bruce met his eyes. "You don't think…?"

It took less than five minutes to compare the birth certificates of the two men and determine that the maternal signatures matched.

"It can't just be coincidental, can it?" Clark pondered.

"The odds are extremely unlikely." He paced the main cave slowly, watching his feet. "Lejaune was part of a heist for Dominic Pezzoli. Pezzoli could have done a lot with hundreds of millions of dollars, and it sounds like Lejaune is the one the others were going to blame for it falling through. If Pezzoli is holding him hostage for the foul up, it might fall to Erwin to do something to make up for his brother's failure."

"How does Dick work into that?"

"…Ransom money? But then why go through all the CPS hassle rather than just trying to snatch him…" He shook his head. "No, that doesn't feel right. It doesn't explain Erwin's use of the same tactics in the other cases, either."

"What all are the Pezzolis into?" Clark asked, unfamiliar with Gotham's crime families.

"You name it. Gambling, extortion, drugs, arms dealing, prostitution, everything."

"Hmm. That's a lot of options."

"Yeah." He continued walking. _What connection, other than his brother, could Erwin have to the Pezzolis? What could explain the missing children? Am I completely off base, trying to connect these events? Maybe it __is__ just a coincidence that they're brothers. For all I know they haven't spoken in twenty years._ Frowning, he sat back down at one of the computers and pulled up Erwin's home telephone records, then began tracing each number. "Ah," he breathed, finding an incoming call from the day before the heist. "Here. Erwin and Lejaune had a twenty minute conversation a few hours before Lejaune met Robin." He kept scrolling and searching. "Clark, look at this."

He rolled over from where he'd been doing a similar examination of Lejaune's mobile call log. "Whose number is that?"

"It goes to Roxane's."

"Roxane? Who's that?"

Bruce sighed, remembering that it was Clark, not Dick, at his side, and that the out-of-towner didn't possess the knowledge of Gotham's underbelly that the teen did. "Roxane's is the name of a strip club owned by the Pezzolis. That could be Erwin's connection."

"…Or he just likes strippers."

"No, I think it's more. What were the dates that the last six kids were reported missing?" One at a time, Clark read them out to him. "Each of these calls occurred the day after one of them vanished."

"You're kidding."

"No, look."

"…So every time a child he's taken from their parents disappears, he calls a Pezzoli-owned strip joint."

"24 to 36 hours later. No sooner, no later."

"_Why_, though?"

"I vote that we find out." Closing out everything that was open on the screen in front of him, Bruce clicked on a telephone icon. "This will let us tap Erwin's home and mobile lines remotely," he explained, entering both numbers into the program. "Any calls he receives or makes will be played over the speakers as well as automatically recorded."

"Convenient."

"It's far superior to the way I used to have to tap phones. I could do it, but in order to stay undetected I had to have a receiver with me and be within 250 feet of the phone I was listening to. It made for a lot of long, boring nights, and it wasn't good with mobiles, especially when the person was moving."

"Does this run around detection systems, too?"

"Yes. It piggybacks on the regular signal and disguises itself as faint interference so that it doesn't look like a tap to any system I've ever encountered. At least that's how it was explained to me."

"Explained to you? You didn't write it?"

"No." He blinked hard a couple times. "It was Robin's Christmas present to Batman last year. He wrote it. He said he was sick of listening to me grumble every time we had to stake out someone's phone."

"Batman and Robin have _Christmas_?" He didn't mean to sound so shocked, but it was impossible to picture a tree down here.

"Drop it, Clark."

They were silent for a while. "So now the waiting begins. I doubt he'll be calling anyone at-" he glanced at his watch "-almost four in the morning." Bruce didn't answer. "Maybe you should get some sleep," he said, deciding to be obvious.

"I'm running out of time, Clark."

"You need a break."

"I need to catch Erwin at something."

"You will, but it won't do anyone any good if you're too exhausted to do anything about it when you do finally nab him."

He glanced around the cave. He _was_ wiped out. He wanted to be nearby when the call he was waiting for occurred, though. His eyes fell on the table in the medical section of the cave. It would be dark enough there to sleep without affecting the lights by the computers, so Clark could continue researching. "Are you going to keep working?"

"Yes. I want to see you get Dick back almost as much as you do, you know. I'll do whatever I can to help make that happen."

"…Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"…I'm going to lay down over there," he gestured. "Wake me the second he makes a call."

"Bruce, if I know you, I won't have to. You'll be listening for it yourself, asleep or not." Ignoring the grunted reply, he watched him walk away. _You're a very stubborn man, Bruce Wayne. I think that's one of the things I like best about you._


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's note: Due to the content of this chapter and the one that will follow it, I have changed the rating of this story from T to M. Hopefully this does not inconvenience anyone in their reading. If it does, I apologize. I didn't realize just how dark this would all get before the end. **

It was dusk along the shore, the sun already sunk below the high cliffs ringing the purplish sand. Bruce immediately knew where he was, but had no explanation for why. Turning his head towards a familiar voice, he found Dick standing a dozen feet away, watching him with his back turned to the water. Inhaling sharply, he tried to move towards him, but his feet were encased in the sand and refused to budge. He strained forward and fell to his hands and knees, reaching out, but the teen was still too far away. Behind him, the sea churned as if something large and potentially dangerous were preparing to rise up out of it.

"Bruce," the boy whispered, oblivious to the choppy water. "I'm sorry."

"I told you, you didn't do anything," the man insisted. "Please, just come a little closer. Come away from the ocean. Get me out of this sand and we'll go home."

"I know I'm no good to you now, Bruce," he said sadly. "I understand. It's okay if you…don't want me. I understand. You need someone stronger than I am. Someone who isn't a coward."

"You are _not_ a coward, damn it! Stop saying that!" he shouted at him. To his horror, the boy stepped back from his rage, a hurt look on his face. "Dick, get away from the water!"

"It's okay. I know something's after me. I don't know why, but…" he shrugged. "I'd rather go with it and know that my lack of courage won't get you hurt."

"Dick, _please_, my god, step back from the water."

"I wish I could, Bruce. I wish…I wish we could have gone on forever, together."

"Just come over here, and we will. We will, I promise. You're still my Robin."

"…You…you still want me? You really do?"

"_Yes_."

"…Oh, Bruce," he said joyfully, a smile breaking through his glaze of dejection. Stretched out on the cooling beach, still groping for him, Bruce smiled too, tears of relief running down his cheeks as his son came towards him, knelt down, and reached for his hands.

Just as their fingers met, a Lovecraftian tentacle rocketed out of the water, wrapping itself around Dick's waist securely. They both screamed, the boy in pain, the man in fear, each gripping the other tightly.

"Hold on!" he ordered, pulling back against the monster trying to steal his child from him. Every effort he made only seemed to invigorate the creature; it tugged more and more aggressively, drawing fresh cries of agony from its victim. The strain was too much to bear for long, and in the moment that both realized it, they locked eyes.

"Bruce…"

"Dick, _no_…"

Bruce heard an awful popping and felt the tension on his arms suddenly vanish. Struggling against the granular chains binding his ankles to the beach, he could only watch as the boy was dragged into the water, still hollering his name. For a long, silent moment after he vanished, all the man left alone on the sand could do was stare at the last spot he'd seen him, some thirty yards off shore. _Why, Dick? Why did you let go?_ Looking down, he discovered the answer.

Eight clenched fingers, dripping blood and shivering their last as the nerves died, still clutched at his hands, fighting to hold on. His son hadn't let go, after all; he'd been literally torn apart in his effort to stay with him. A blood chilling howl roared from his throat, and he snapped awake in the cave.

"Oh god, oh, god, oh my fucking _god_ no," he muttered to himself, clawing away the blanket that someone – Alfred, no doubt – had draped over him and bolting for the bathroom. He barely made it in time to drop before the toilet and retch violently. He stayed hunched after he was done, fighting nausea, unable to erase the image of Dick's dismembered fingers that seemed burned onto his retinas. Only when he sensed the butler bending beside him with a glass of water did he raise his head.

"All right now, sir?" he asked, reclaiming the glass when Bruce had rinsed his mouth several times, spitting the backwash in with the rest of his mess before closing the lid and flushing it away.

"Are any of us, Alfred?"

"…No, sir. We are not. It was a foolish question." He paused. "A nightmare, I presume?"

"Well it sure as hell better not have been a premonition."

"It must have been quite terrible. You haven't been sick from a sleep terror since you were a child."

"…I've had a lot of bad dreams, Alfred. That one was easily in the top three."

"Then let us hope it doesn't repeat itself." He didn't have to ask what it had been about. He'd been waking up in cold sweats of his own for the last week from nocturnal visions involving his younger charge, and could well imagine the sort of things that might have appeared to the other man's slumbering brain. Turning to the sink, he rinsed the tumbler and refilled it, handing it back. "You should rehydrate, Master Wayne. I'll prepare something light for you to eat and bring it down."

"Thanks, Alfred." Still shaking, he stood up and rinsed his face, giving himself a moment to calm down before he ventured back out into the cave. Clark looked like he wanted to say something about what had just occurred, but he bit his tongue and simply informed him that he hadn't found anything new that seemed useful. "How long was I asleep?"

"About fifteen hours. You needed the rest, Bruce," he insisted at the scowl the high number brought. "There were no calls, incoming or outgoing, so I didn't wake you."

"Fine," he snapped, frustrated with himself for wasting time. "Let's just keep working."

At nine o'clock, they heard the click of Erwin's phone being picked up. Both rushed to the terminal monitoring his line, listening intently as it rang through.

_"Roxane's, who's this?"_

_ "Who do you think, Shiner?"_

_ "Hey hey, it's egotistical Erwin."_

_ "__Don't__ use my name, dumb fuck!"_

_ "Relax. It's not like the line's tapped. Boss made sure of that. It's untappable, he told me."_

_ "Yes, and everyone thought the Titanic was unsinkable, too. You remember how that turned out."_

_ "Look, I'm staring at a little green light right now. If someone was listening, it wouldn't be that color. So chill, man."_

Bruce grinned narrowly. "Good work, Dick," he murmured.

_"Fine. Just get the van over here tonight, I've got a pick up for you."_

_ "Yeah, boss said you'd be calling today. How're the goods?"_

_ "Standard quality. You'll get three, maybe four months of use."_

_ "Peak of freshness, eh? Or I guess she was until you got your hands on her, haha."_

_ "Something like that."_

_ "Ten thirty, have her ready. My guys'll have your money, same as usual."_

_ "Done. Also, I have a message."_

_ "For the boss?"_

_ "For the __big__ boss. Tell him the special order he requested is being processed."_

_ "Hold on, here, you can tell him yourself, he just came in to inspect some new merchandise. Boss P? I've got Erwin on the line, wants to talk to you. Something about a special delivery."_

_ "Don't use his name, dumbass," _a new voice came on. _"Well? Is it wrapped up?"_

_ "Not quite. The playboy almost shit his pants in court yesterday when he heard the interview, though."_

_ "How marked up is he from the surgery?"_

_ "Not too bad. He's got a bunch of other scars, though. They won't affect his value, he wears them well. Never seen a kid his age with that kind of body. I can't get enough of it. He's tight."_

_ "No penetration on this one."_

_ "What?! That's not our deal. We agreed when I started working for you, I get first dibs on all of them before they go into the menagerie. It's part of my price. Besides, I've been __waiting__ for him."_

_ "He's not going into the menagerie."_

_ "…Oh?" _The disappointment was still obvious in his voice, but there was a conniving interest there as well now.

_ "No. I have a special buyer lined up."_

_ "Well, in that case, I suppose this is a good time to bring up my pay for him."_

_ "Your pay?" _ Laughter ensued. _"Go ahead, humor me."_

_ "He's tough, big man. I gave him the concentrated dope, and he still barely said anything. The judge wants him on the stand. I'm going to have to really pull some strings to get this one locked down for you."_

_ "Get to the point."_

_ "Sixty K. That's the price. It was going to be forty, but seeing as how you want me to curtail my fun, I'm tacking on a little extra for the inconvenience of having to control myself. This one's…this one's something special. I'll probably never forgive myself for not getting to plumb him."_

_ "You're funny, you know that? Both crazy funny and haha funny."_

_ "How so?" _Erwin's voice slipped into a deadly tone.

_"You're crazy funny because you get pleasure from forcing yourself on children. Even if it was just girls, I would find that demented, but you take your full price with the boys, too. You're haha funny because you think you can negotiate your pay on this deal. I won't give you jack beyond your brother's life."_

_ "…So __you__ have him," _Erwin breathed. _"I wondered when I hadn't heard from him. I knew the job had gone to hell, and he wouldn't call from jail, he knows better than that, but they didn't list his name in the paper as one of the ones arrested…"_

_"He was working for me, wasn't he? He fucked up my heist, got three of my people – one of them my nephew-in-law, I'll have you know, I'll never hear the goddamn end of it now - thrown in the pen, and lost me a lot of money. Of course I'm the one who has his sorry excuse for an ass. The kid won't bring the kind of dough I was supposed to have by now, but I'll consider the two and a half million he __will__ net me sufficient to let your idiot relative live. Now…do we have a deal?"_

_ "Do you guarantee Jeffrey?"_

_ "When you produce the Wayne brat, you can take whatever's left of him with my blessing."_

_ "What's __left__, Pezzoli? What the fuck does that mean?"_

_ "It means he's lucky I like crybabies who beg for their pathetic lives when I point a gun at their heads. He'll be alive and conscious, and that's my guarantee. Deal, or not?"_

_ "No one else can get this boy for you, Pezzoli. You know that."_

_ "I don't, actually. But I do know that if you use my name again during this conversation I'll kill you myself, secured line or not. You've got three seconds to answer."_

_ "…Fine. The kid for Jeffrey. Deal."_

_ "Good. Hurry up about it. I'm an impatient man, and your brother is an annoying little bastard. And one more thing. That boy had better be virgin. You give him fresh marks or even __think__ about penetrating him, with __anything__, and I'll have your balls turned into a new key fob."_

The call ended on that note, leaving the two men in the Batcave staring at the screen in silence. "Well, now we know where the missing children were taken," Clark shook his head, disgusted. "Maybe they can still be recovered. They'll all need serious counseling, probably for the rest of their lives, but the fact that they seem to have come from good homes should help." He looked over at Bruce when he received no answer. "Are you okay?" he asked sharply when he saw his pallor.

"…I just listened to a crime lord cut a deal with a pedophilic agent of Gotham Child Protective Services to kidnap and borderline rape my son before selling him to the highest bidder as…as a _sex toy_," the billionaire said as if he were still trying to convince himself that the conversation he'd just heard had really occurred.

"It won't happen, Bruce. You've got him dead to rights. That phone call will bring the whole thing down on top of him, and will probably be key to netting Pezzoli, too. I know it's hard to hear them talking about Dick like that," he commiserated as the silence drew out. He hadn't particularly enjoyed listening to that part of the discussion himself. "But now we can stop it. Now we know. A five minute call from Batman to the police is all it will-"

"No." His voice had dropped into a trademark growl.

"…What do you mean, _no?_"

"That demented little fucker belongs to _me_."

"Bruce-"

"He had the nerve to stand in court and accuse me of sexual abuse. He drugged Dick and twisted his words around to suit his needs. He didn't have to come up with a story to pin on me out of whole cloth; all he had to do was take the things he wants to do to him and make the court believe that I've already done them. The police can have Pezzoli and Lejaune, but Erwin is mine."

"Bruce, I don't think you'll be able to control yourself with him. You don't kill, and for a damn good reason, but I'm afraid that you'll go too far if you lose control."

He turned eyes so dark with rage that they appeared almost black towards him. "Could you blame me if I did?"


	19. Chapter 19

The windows of the CPS agent's modest two story house were all shuttered from the inside. Not wanting to alert him to their presence before they were ready, Batman picked the lock on the back door, and they slipped inside. Hearing nothing, he turned his eyes questioningly to Superman, standing beside him.

The Kryptonian rolled his eyes skyward to indicate that Erwin was somewhere above them. Nodding, Batman led the way though the kitchen and up the stairs, coming to a halt in front of the only closed door on the second level. Pressing an ear against it, he heard a highly recognizable series of sounds and glanced over at the other man for verification. _Is he doing what I think he's doing?_ he wondered.When Superman merely nodded, a grimace on his lips, Batman narrowed his eyes and kicked the door in.

Erwin tried to cover himself as they entered. "The _fuck-_" he managed to get out before a black tornado landed three incapacitating hits. He hit the floor with a resounding thud, still perfectly aware but unable to move. Screaming was as ineffectual as his attempts to get up were; the most he could manage was a hoarse whisper.

Certain that he wouldn't be going anywhere under his own power, Batman swung back around to the bed to find Superman sweeping the papers Erwin had been masturbating to out of sight. "Hey!" he said cuttingly. "You're destroying my evidence."

"I don't think you need this particular evidence." He'd had a suspicion about what had gotten the pedophile turned on, and didn't want the other man to see the proof if it could be avoided, knowing it would only deepen his already tenuously leashed fury.

"That's nice," the Bat sneered. "But it isn't your case." Snatching up several items that lay face-down on the bed, he flipped through them, his fingers slowing with each successive image. One was clearly a CPS case file picture; a few were newspaper shots dating back to a couple of years earlier. The last one was a recent personal photograph, taken, he knew, from among the items he had packed in the box that the man stuck at his feet had snatched.

Every single item featured Dick prominently.

Before Henry Erwin knew what was happening, the black-clad figure had swooped down, lifted him by the shoulders, and slammed an armored knee into his crotch. If his shriek had been able to come out at more than the fifty decibels his semi-paralyzed throat could manage, he would have woken the entire neighborhood as he was thrown back to the floor unceremoniously.

"…If you hit him like that again, you aren't going to get anything out of him," Superman warned.

"He'll talk." Glancing around the room, he spotted cardboard with a familiar array of items scattered around it. He carefully repacked the box the way it had been originally, flipping through a small photo album to ensure that no other pictures had been used as fuel for the pervert's imagination. Finding only one blank space, he replaced the shot that belonged there and folded the lid of the container shut.

Turning around, he found that Superman had pulled the blanket from the bed and was tossing it over the half-dressed Erwin. "Hey!"

"I don't particularly want to look at him like that the entire time you interview him, do you?"

"…No. I suppose not." He dragged the object of his interest upright, leaning his rigid body against the side of the bed. "Why the kids?"

His only answer was a series of sobs. He backhanded him, and repeated his question.

"Fuck you."

Another blow, and Erwin's lip split. "This is nothing, you know," Batman informed him quietly. "I have no patience for you. Why the kids?"

Again, no answer. He didn't dare hit him more until he had the answers he wanted – there was too much risk that he wouldn't be able to stop - so he rose and began to search through the dresser drawers. On his third try, just as Superman was about to ask what the hell he was doing, he found what he was looking for. "This is how he was drugging them," he explained, showing the other man the ring Dick had described.

"He'd have to be very careful to keep from dosing himself," Superman observed, seeing the two small spikes that protruded from one side of the circle.

"He had plenty of practice to get used to it." He knelt back down before the man who was literally making him see red. "I'll bet he keeps it loaded," he said silkily before pressing the prongs into his cheek. Sure enough, the resistance in Erwin's eyes drained away, leaving him as open to Batman's queries as the children had been to his. Batman activated his cowl camera – the more proof, the better - and began to fire questions.

"Why the kids?"

"…I _like_ kids," Erwin answered, his resistance completely defeated by his own serum. His tongue inched out to taste the blood on his lips. He seemed to enjoy it, and went back for a second lick. "They're so fresh, and innocent, and…they get such precious looks on their faces, when they realize what you're about to do, and afterwards, when they can't understand why someone they were told they could trust has betrayed them. I used to go for street kids, you know. They were so much easier, a lot of them would blow you for a warm place to sleep in the winter, but…there was no challenge, no excitement. The good kids, though, the ones from stable homes…They're perfect little angels. They trust you in a way that none of the urchins do, so it means so much more when you destroy them. It makes it so much more enjoyable."

"And Pezzoli? How did he become involved?"

"…I had to have something to do with them after I was finished. They couldn't go back to their foster families, I knew they would blab eventually no matter what I gave them to suppress their memories. My brother works for Pezzoli, and he said he thought he could help us."

_Us?_ "Your brother rapes them as well?"

"…No, no, he…he just helped me bury the first one. Jeffrey's into older kids, above the age I usually deal with."

"You killed one of them." His hands closed into fists.

"…Just the first time. I panicked, I didn't know what I was doing. I just…I just did it, when I was done with her. I mean, I thought I was done with her, but then after she was dead…" he giggled. "It was a different challenge, you know? It was a long time ago, probably no one even remembers her name any more."

_I'll bet her parents still do. _He ached to simply beat the sorry excuse for a human being in front of him into jelly, but curbed the desire, albeit with difficulty. "What does Pezzoli do with them?"

"…Aw, Pezzoli, he's such a fucking prude. He won't touch the kids. But he's a businessman, you know? So he buys them off of me and puts them in the basement of Roxane's. He's got a list of customers, people with tastes like mine who'll pay good money to make their fantasies comes true in a safe place. He's got it organized really well, starts them out with people who just want to screw, then moves along to the ones who want kinkier and kinkier stuff. Most of them don't last that long, but some of the kids, the really strong ones, they can make it four or five months before he starts letting in the people who like to tie them up, hit them, stuff like that."

"What happens when he runs out of customers for them?"

"…I don't know for sure, but…there's not much resale value in a beaten and raped kid. Pezzoli's got no time for waste. Trash compactor or something's my bet."

_Four or five months, tops. If what he's saying is true, then all but the most recent two are already beyond help._ "What do you charge per child, Erwin?"

"…Twenty grand. It's for my retirement fund, you know? I want to move somewhere that I can get fresh kids cheap and easy, not have to go through all this legal bullshit every time something pretty comes into the ER."

"And LeJaune?"

"…Jeffrey?" He looked affected at the mention of his brother. "Pezzoli's got him. I have to get him back. Jeffrey's all I've got. I can't let Pezzoli kill him. I've got to get the Wayne kid for him, or he'll kill Jeffrey…" Amazingly, a couple of tears escaped his eyes. Batman wouldn't have believed they were real if he hadn't heard the level of emotion the drug had brought out in Dick.

"What does Pezzoli want with the boy, Erwin? Why him, in particular?" He had heard the conversation, of course, but there might be more that hadn't been said.

"…He says he's got a special client who wants him bad."

"Who?"

"…I don't know. Pezzoli's got a few special clients; I've gotten kids for him in the past that were specifically ordered like Grayson was. One guy was a vivisectionist; another made really detailed snuff films. Couple of his old clients are in Arkham right now, so I guess it can't be one of them, huh?"

A car door closed downstairs. "Who is that?" he demanded.

"…They're picking up the girl."

"Where is she?"

"…Downstairs, locked in the basement. They come in from the outside, grab the kid, and leave the money. That way I never see them, couldn't identify them in court if I was ever caught. Pezzoli insists on that."

"Get the girl," Batman told Superman.

"Maybe you should go. I'll stay with Erwin." He didn't want to leave the two of them alone, knowing that the other man could still snap and kill the CPS agent.

"I'm not going to do anything. _Go_, there's no reason to let her be scared any longer. Besides, I've got the camera."

Grimacing, Superman nodded tersely. "Don't do anything you'll regret, Batman," he said as he exited.

Scowling, he turned his attention back to Erwin. "Why Grayson?" he repeated, his voice taut. It was the question he most wanted the answer to, but he'd known he needed to get the answers to his other queries first, before he walked the edge of his self-control.

"…I told you, it was a special order."

"Why did you want him? Before you knew about Jeffrey, why did _you_ want him?"

The agent smiled, and Batman realized that the man had begun to escape the influence of the drugs while he'd been arguing with Superman. The cold malevolence was back in his eyes, a presumptuous smile twisting his lips. Pulling the ring back out of his belt, he dosed him again, poking his hand this time so that the action was out of the camera's view. "…Why _wouldn't _I want him?" Erwin answered as the booster wrapped around his mind. "He's perfect."

"What?"

"…I've been watching him for a while now. The first time I saw him…" he grinned at the memory. "Every child since then has failed to fully satisfy me. No matter how pretty they are, it's not _him_. I got a boy last time who looked a lot like him, but I knew it wasn't the real thing, and it wasn't enough. When Pezzoli told me who he wanted, and then he just rolled right into the Memorial ER a few days later…I couldn't believe my luck. It was almost impossible to keep it from showing while we were alone in his room. I never thought I'd actually get my hands on him." His eyes rolled hungrily.

"Pezzoli told you not to touch him."

"…Yeah. He also took my brother hostage and isn't going to pay me, despite this being the most difficult one I've nabbed for him yet. Wayne's putting up a hell of a fight, more than some of the parents whose biological children I take do. You can tell he really loves the kid, and the kid is just as attached. It's disgusting, really. The judge is on his side, and that's not making it any easier. I wish I could have gotten Thackeray; this would all be over all ready, and I'd be sated for once."

"What's Thackeray got to do with it?"

"…He's one of Pezzoli's high rollers. He's got a thing for little girls calling him daddy."

_Jesus Christ, is there __anyone__ of authority in this town other than Gordon who isn't a pedophile? _"So you were going to ignore Pezzoli's order?"

"…Hell yes. I have my ways; I could have made him look like he'd never been touched. I have wanted that boy for months. I haven't been able to sleep for thinking about him. I never get much time before they have to be picked up, but I've got it all lined out. I know _exactly _what I would do to him, in what order. There are things I want to do to him that I've never done with the others. If I had it my way – just twelve hours, uninterrupted, that's all I'd need – he'd be useless to Pezzoli, because I'd rip him open beyond repair. He's _so_ pretty, _so _happy…he makes me sick even as he turns me on. I just want to ruin him. I want to watch the last shred of hope leave those gorgeous eyes."

Batman's ire mounted ever higher as Erwin's went on. He heard the words, but he also heard how the man's breathing had quickened with excitement. Glancing down, he found that despite the nerve locks he'd placed the agent had managed to attain a blatant state of physical arousal simply by thinking about what he had planned. "You wanted to destroy something beautiful," he stated stonily.

"…_Yes._"

"Your fantasy of what you want to do to him; is that beautiful to you?" His hand pinned the man against the side of the bed by his throat as he voiced the question.

"…Oh, yes. Heavenly."

It was done; his self-control was demolished by that admission. He clicked off the cowl camera, not wanting what he knew was about to happen to be caught on film. His fingers tightened, dragging him upwards and into the beginnings of a slow, meticulous beating.

The room faded away for both of them.


	20. Chapter 20

Superman easily took care of the men sent to collect the girl before turning his attention to the petrified child. She clung to him desperately, crying and begging for her parents. By the time he got her calmed down enough to carry her out of the soundproofed cellar, the echo of landing blows filled the house, and he knew that Batman had lost it. _Damn it, Bruce… _"Stay here," he told the girl gently, setting her on the bottom stair. "It's okay now, no one will hurt you. The police will be here soon." He tried to go, but she grabbed his leg.

"No! I want my mommy…don't leave me, Superman, the bad man will come back…he'll hurt me again…" She broke down in tears once more.

Casting a worried glance upwards, he sat back down beside her, hugging her close when she crawled into his lap. His heart ached for her, and for the other children that Erwin had done the same thing to. _If he had gotten ahold of Dick…_ he cut the thought off and swallowed the bad taste that had manifested in his mouth. "He can't hurt you anymore, I promise," he soothed, focusing on the girl in his arms. "You'll get to see your mommy just as soon as this is over, sweetheart. It'll be okay. Trust me?" He gave her a reassuring smile, hoping she wasn't listening to the meaty thuds coming from over their heads.

"…Well…" she sniffled. "You _are_ Superman…"

"Trust me?" he repeated, clearing a few tears from her cheeks.

"…Okay. But be quick? Please?"

"I'll be as quick as I can. You stay here. You can call out for me if you get too scared, okay? I'll come right back." As soon as she nodded hesitantly, he rushed to Erwin's bedroom, taking no pains to hide his approach. The last smack faded away as he drew up to the door and slipped inside to find Batman standing, gauntleted fists dripping, over a scarcely identifiable Erwin. "…I thought you said you weren't going to do anything," he said quietly, crossing his arms and feeling his stomach sink.

"I didn't kill him," Batman replied, sounding a little surprised by the fact. Sure enough, the bloody pulp of a person on the floor gave a gurgling groan.

"You may as well have, from the looks of him."

"No. He'll live, with proper medical care. I've already called the police, so he'll receive what he needs to continue breathing." He paused. "I didn't even cripple him. He'll feel like I did, probably for the rest of his life, but I was careful. He'll still be able to be put in a regular penitentiary." His lip curled. "They just _love_ child molesters in prison." Sirens rose in the distance and grew louder as he spoke.

"Do you have a story ready?"

"Yes." Stepping over the semi-conscious Erwin, he picked up the re-packed box and tucked it under one arm. "This doesn't belong to you," he directed down at him, launching a final kick.

"Want to wait downstairs?"

"Yeah."

The little girl curled on the bottom step stared at the black-clad figure as he passed her, but didn't say anything. When Superman tried to go by, however, she attached herself to him with a whine. He sat back down beside her to wait, wrapping an arm around her when she pressed against his side.

As police cars rounded the corner, Batman turned away from the window and addressed the child, dropping to one knee to look her in the face. "Can you tell the police exactly what the man upstairs did to you?" he asked in the closest thing to a gentle voice Superman had ever heard come from under the cowl.

"I'll try," she whispered, her eyes wide as they roamed across his costume. "He hurt me."

"I know. Thank you." He stood back up. "You're a very brave child. Your parents should be proud. Hold this for me," he added, handing the box to Superman.

"Gotham PD!" The front door crashed inward, and the girl screamed. Superman comforted her as Batman pivoted to glare at the uniforms that streamed into the house with guns drawn.

"What part of 'under control' and 'subdued' did the dispatcher fail to explain to you?" he deadpanned.

"Oh. Well, we thought…" The lead officer looked guilty. "Commissioner will be here soon, Batman," he finished lamely.

"Just take care of the girl." He paused, dropping his voice. "You'll need a rape kit. _Don't _mess it up. The one who did it is upstairs. He also needs medical attention."

"...Sure." Clearing his throat, he began to deploy his officers as Batman stepped past him.

Outside, he moved a short distance away from the flashing lights and took a deep breath of the spring air, heavy with the scent of wet soil and new life. _Dick,_ he thought, tilting his head back to stare up into the sky. _We got the bastard. He'll never do to another child what he wanted to do to you. _He bent down and wiped his gloves in the low grass, cleaning the taint of Erwin's blood off of them. _I'll have to ask Alfred to soak these in disinfectant…or maybe I'll just burn them… _

"Batman!" He regained his full height to find Gordon crossing the lawn at a fast clip. "Well?"

"There is an agent of Gotham Child Protective Services upstairs, incapacitated. He has been utilizing his position with Social Services to pull children from good homes and place them with foster families, from whom he then kidnaps them, making it look like a runaway situation. After he rapes them, he sells them to Dominic Pezzoli, who places them in bondage underneath Roxane's until such a time as they no longer pay for themselves. You may find one or two of the children most recently taken by Erwin there, but I suspect that the rest have already been killed." He ejected a micro-SD card containing the children's case files, the telephone conversation between Erwin and Pezzoli, and the interview that he'd conducted from his cowl and handed it to the open-mouthed Commissioner. "There is more than sufficient evidence here to put Erwin _and_ Pezzoli away for the rest of their lives. Add the testimony of the girl Erwin was in the process of selling when I arrived and the DA won't have to lift a finger. Additionally, you'll want to check into the lists of clients that Pezzoli keeps for the underage side of his business; among them you'll find at least one judge, and probably a few other noteworthy names."

"…How did you find out about all of this, Batman?" Gordon asked cautiously, taking the small plastic tab. "This isn't usually your thing."

"I was continuing my investigation of the credit card heist that Robin and I stopped last weekend. One of the thieves escaped us-"

"You didn't tell us that!"

"-and happens to be Erwin's brother, Jeffrey Lejaune," Batman overrode his protest. "Dominic Pezzoli is holding him hostage, and contacted Erwin earlier today about ransom. I happened to intercept the call. It all went from there."

"Where is Robin tonight?" Gordon inquired, glancing around as if he expected that the Boy Wonder would appear from the shadows at any moment. "Surely you didn't bring him out on a case like this. Pretty rough for a youngster."

"Robin has already seen more than his share of rough things, Commissioner, and yet he persists," Batman said tersely. "But he's not with me tonight. He's feeling…under the weather."

"Nothing serious, I hope," Gordon said lightly, watching the caped man out of the corner of his eye.

"Nothing serious enough to keep him from being immensely helpful in solving this case." _A hundred and some-odd fever, and he still came through for me. That's my boy._

"…They do grow up fast, don't they?"

"…Mm."

"Well. I have a few calls to make. I imagine this discovery will bring relief to Bruce Wayne, at least. That case against him – I'm sure you've heard about, it's been all over the news – should be dropped in no time."

"I would think so, given that Erwin admitted to targeting Wayne's ward as his next victim."

"…You don't say?" An officer came up to Gordon, pulling him away for a few seconds of swift conversation. As the uniformed man spoke, the Commissioner's face took on a shocked expression. "…Good lord, Batman, what did you do to the man?" he asked when he'd heard enough.

"Why? Isn't he still alive?"

"Well, yes, but I don't think he'll be very grateful for that fact when he learns he'll be sitting down on the toilet for the rest of his life. This is a fair bit more brutal than usual, even for you. The press is going to have a goddamn field day."

"…Are you objecting, considering what he did?"

"Off the record?" He glanced around to make sure no one else could hear them before he continued. "No. If it was _my _daughter he'd done that to…" He shuddered. "Still, I do have to wonder if it was more what he was _planning_ to do than what he had already done that set you off."

"…That's not significant to the case."

"Ah. Right. Of course it isn't." He stood silently for several long moments, watching the vigilante openly.

"Didn't you have calls to make, Commissioner?" Batman asked pointedly when the feel of eyes boring into the side of head grew annoying.

"Yes. Yes, I do…Thank you, Batman." He walked away, muttering something under his breath. Batman thought he caught the words 'goddamn enigma act,' but he couldn't be certain.

A short time later Superman came up beside him. "Here," he said, handing the box back. "The girl seems to be handling it as well as can be expected. Her parents are on their way, and she's already talking to the police."

"Mm. Good. More evidence."

"…How are _you_?"

"Let's go. We're done here." Without answering, he stalked into the dark. Sighing in frustration, Superman followed.


	21. Chapter 21

"…I'm amazed you didn't go too far, Bruce. I honestly feared that you would." Clark addressed the other man as he stepped into the main cave, hair dripping from his shower. The ride back and the changing process had been completed in silence; he'd let it be, knowing that his friend needed a little while to process the heavy emotions of the evening. Now, however, it was time to talk.

"…I almost did," Bruce confessed grudgingly as he sat down. "I wanted to."

"What stopped you?"

He stared at the computer in front of him, which still displayed the phone tapping program. "I realized that killing him wasn't the example I wanted to set for Robin."

"You made the right choice."

"Mm." A moment passed. "Would you have stopped me?"

"Yes, if I had made it in time," he answered quietly. "Because no matter how much you hate him, you would have hated yourself more if you'd killed him. You don't kill, not on purpose. And certainly not like that."

"Mm."

"So…how are you, having not killed him?"

"Fine."

"Liar." He wouldn't normally call him out like that, but he still sensed that something was unsettled in the man beside him.

"Clark…" he shook his head, not really wanting to discuss the roil of emotions washing through him but aware that he wouldn't be left alone about them until he did. "I really _wanted_ to kill him. Thinking about Dick, though, about how upset he would be if he ever found out that I'd killed, and out of revenge for him on top of it…thinking about how I don't ever want him to lose control of himself that way…that's all that stopped me from just tearing his head off. Literally."

"But you _did_ stop. And that's what matters."

"Is it? I feel like I've opened a Pandora's Box. The next time someone tries to hurt him, I might not be able to hold back."

"That's always been a risk, ever since you started taking him out in the field. If nothing else, now you know that thinking about Dick's reaction if you _were_ to take a life on purpose is enough to help you restrain yourself."

He knew Clark was right, but…"…I still don't like the way I felt out there. It felt _good_ to know that I was going beyond what was absolutely necessary to bring him in for the justice system. Sure, I've thrown a few extra punches at people I was really pissed at, but I've never done anything like I did tonight. I don't want to feel that way again, and I definitely don't want to do anything like that in front of Robin."

"Then you won't," Clark said simply. "I know it sounds like I'm being flippant, but if you really feel that strongly about it, you won't let yourself go so far again, unless the circumstances are somehow more extreme. Which, naturally, I hope that they never are."

"They will be, sooner or later," Bruce mused, frowning. "It's inevitable. If he stays Robin, or goes on to take a new persona someday, sooner or later something will happen worse than this, no matter how close I keep him or how hard I try to prevent it. It's the nature of this business."

"…You know you can't make him stop, right?" _Trying to take the mask away from him now would create a horrible divide between you,_ he thought. _And it wouldn't work, either._

"I'm not stupid, Clark. I know my son well enough to realize that trying to make him quit would just anger him. He'd probably go running to you, in fact."

"He probably would."

"And you'd help him," he said, sounding a little betrayed. "Even if you understood why I did it, you'd take his side."

"…Yes, Bruce. I probably would, and for the same reason that you gave him a costume to start with; he needs it. It's a part of him."

"…Thank you for that." He meant the words, and it showed in his voice.

"You're welcome. And I'm sorry, in advance. I know it's really going to upset you if what we're discussing ever does come to pass."

"He has to grow up eventually. I guess," he added unwillingly.

"Just wish it wasn't happening so fast?" Clark posited.

"…Yeah."

"Sounds like parenthood to me."

"Ha, ha," he faked, stretching and glancing at his watch. For all that he was still disturbed by the lengths to which he had let himself go with Erwin, it was starting to sink in that this nightmare was almost over. In a few hours he would be able to visit Dick properly, without the distance and secrecy of the cowl between them. A tiny ray of light broke through the miserable mood he'd been trapped in for nearly a week. "I'm thinking we should go upstairs, have Alfred make a really strong pot of coffee, and wait for all of this to hit the news. The second it does, I'm calling Keith and we're going to the hospital."

"I get to come with this time?" Clark asked teasingly, glad to see the shift in the other man's outlook. Bruce shot him a look and led the way upstairs, almost bumping into Alfred as he entered the hallway.

"Coffee, Master Wayne?" the butler asked. He didn't know the most brutal specifics of the case, but he'd seen and heard enough to know what was going on, and as such he couldn't keep the curiosity from his eyes.

"We'll take it in the den, Alfred." He gave him a tiny smile, well aware that the butler was far from out of the loop on what they'd been working on. "We got the son of a bitch. Just have to wait for the media to break the story. I'll pull Judge Leavering out of bed to lift our visitation restrictions myself if I have to."

"Is it really so close to over, sir?"

"I think so. There might be a bit more red tape, but tonight was a major score for our side. I expect that we'll be able to see Dick before the end of the day."

"Very good, sir." His voice belied nothing, but there was a definite spring in his step as he turned and followed them back into the main portion of the manor. Handing them each a steaming cup as they settled into deep leather chairs, he prepared to leave.

"Alfred."

"Yes, Master Wayne? Would you like me to fix you something to eat? I'm sure you must be hungry after your mission."

"No, Alfred. I'd like you to join us. No point in having to hunt you down in the kitchen when we're ready to go. Have a cup with us." _You're as much a part of this victory as we are,_ he tacked on in his head.

"As it happens, sir…" The Englishman pulled a third cup from behind the coffee ewer. "…I had made preparations in the hopes of just such an invitation." Before he sat, he disclosed a small flask from the inside pocket of his jacket. "A little nip with your drinks, sirs?" Seeing the looks on their faces, he went on. "It seemed an appropriate offer; we are celebrating, are we not?"

Suddenly, Bruce began to laugh, holding out his cup. "Alfred," he said, pulling his hand back once the brandy had been added, "just when I think I know all your secrets, you drop something else on me."

"You don't have a crime-fighting outfit hidden around here too, do you?" Clark asked. His tone was jesting, but he wouldn't have been surprised if the answer had been yes.

"No, Mr. Kent," Alfred chuckled. "I find that such activities are better left to the younger generations."

"So," Bruce said when they'd all calmed. "What should we drink to? The capture of the corrupt?"

"The triumph of justice, perhaps," Alfred contributed.

"…How about to Batman and Robin?" Clark suggested quietly, raising his cup.

"…Quite apropos, sir," the butler agreed, his eyes misting just a tad as he, too, elevated his drink.

Bruce looked back and forth between the two men who were staring at him, presenting their beverages as they waited for his approval. "…To Batman and Robin."

_May they stand together forever,_ he toasted as the warm coffee and good liquor slid down his throat.

**Author's Note: As 'end of the line**' **as this chapter sounds, it is not the end of the story. There's still fluff to come. Thanks to everyone who's read this far, and double thanks to those of you who have been kind enough to share your thoughts.**


	22. Chapter 22

"What the _fuck_ do you mean I can't see him?!" Bruce exploded at the ICU nurse.

"Sir, please calm down," she requested, not giving any ground. "I know you're upset, but-"

"Listen," he cut her off, getting a grasp on his control again. "I understand that this isn't your fault. You were told that no one was allowed access to him, et cetera, et cetera. But my son has been lying in your department for a week, and I haven't been allowed to see him due to the machinations of an incredibly disgusting, twisted man. Last night, Batman caught the pervert in the middle of one of his insidious schemes, and he was arrested. You have the order from the court saying I can see him. Look, it's even on the television right now," he said, stabbing a finger towards the muted screen across from her desk. The news station was rolling the same thing it had been since the story had broken six hours earlier, repeating the sordid details over and over again:

_Gotham CPS agent Henry Erwin arrested for child trafficking, sexual abuse of minors, other charges; other city officials named as suspects in child prostitution ring; abused youths recovered from basement dungeons of local gentlemen's club, Roxane's, owned by known crime lord Dominic Pezzoli, also in custody; Police Commissioner Gordon reveals that full extent of the crimes were discovered by Batman; Wayne ward Richard Grayson determined to have been next target of the child traffickers; allegations that Wayne sexually and physically abused Grayson still outstanding, but deemed "very shaky" by presiding judge due to evidence from the Erwin-Pezzoli scandal…_

The last words were the sweetest for Bruce. He, Clark, and Alfred had sat through bad infomercials and _Twilight Zone_ reruns until almost 6:00 Sunday morning, when a breaking news bulletin had come up and snapped them out of their half-sleeps. Gordon had looked exhausted but triumphant as he briefed the press on the events of the night, announcing the bust as a huge step towards eliminating corruption in the ranks of the city's public servants. The extent of Erwin's injuries had not been mentioned, although it was a safe bet that they would be revealed soon enough, casting Batman back into the gray area he usually walked in the minds of most of Gotham's citizens.

Keith, woken by Bruce's phone call exactly five minutes after Gordon's press conference ended, had hustled down to the courthouse and managed to squeeze them onto Judge Leavering's suddenly very busy schedule. Judge Thackeray, he learned, had been placed under house arrest, causing Leavering to have to cover for him. There had been no gap for even a brief meeting until Keith himself, utilizing the full powers of his employer's name, called back to the judge's chambers to request it personally.

By 9:45, Bruce and Keith had been waiting for twenty minutes past their appointed time. When Leavering finally stormed in and dropped into his chair, rubbing his temples, he went straight to the point.

"You're here to have the charges dropped?"

They were both a little taken aback by the suggestion. "Is that feasible, Your Honor?" Keith asked.

"Hypothetically." He sighed. "Several of the children found last night were cases of Erwin's that had been ruled on by Thackeray. They are now part of my caseload. As a result, I've spent the last hour and a half in conference with a special investigator from GPD, going over the evidence. Brutal, nasty stuff; I'm very glad, Mr. Wayne, that this was all uncovered before my decision on your ward had to be rendered. I'm not saying I would have ruled in Erwin's favor, because I don't know how I might have decided following a full hearing, but I could never have forgiven myself had I taken him from you and put him the situation Erwin had planned."

"So what's the next step in this situation, Your Honor?"

"Well, Mr. Jones, I reviewed your affidavits again this morning, and in my opinion the sworn statements of two reputable physicians plus what we now know about Henry Erwin are more than sufficient cause for me to rule that the allegations are completely unfounded. Just to be on the safe side, however," he added, "I still want to speak with Richard, when he's able. I'd still like to know a little more about what he said in his interview with Erwin, and about how he got injured. It won't be a full hearing, just in chambers as we are now, and I'll need to speak with him alone. It's for your protection as well as his, Mr. Wayne," he pointed out when he saw his eyes narrowing. "There's no guarantee that CPS won't try to pursue these charges again once they've recovered from this scandal. I would be very surprised if they do, but if that does occur, my being able to say that I interviewed the boy without you present and found no reason for concern will go a long way towards helping your case. In the meantime, however, there's no reason I can think of for keeping you from him." Handing a piece of paper over, he smiled. "Go see your son, Mr. Wayne. The writ I've just given you will be more than enough to shut up anyone who tries to stop you."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Bruce beamed, standing and extending a hand. The judge took it and shook heartily.

"No need to thank me. I have a son myself. I can't imagine how I would feel if it had been my boy Erwin had tried to take. Good luck, Mr. Wayne."

The smile on his face had been all it took to let Alfred and Clark know what had happened in chambers. They'd gotten up from their seats the second he stepped into the hallway, identical grins spreading across their lips. "Gotham Memorial, Master Wayne?" Alfred had asked, trying to tame his expression.

"Fast as you can without getting pulled over, Alfred."

Naturally, there'd been a traffic snarl downtown, delaying them for an interminable half hour. Bruce kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, reading and then refolding the writ, until Clark said something about it. After that he merely glared out the window, wondering if it would be faster to just walk.

Finally, Alfred had dropped him at the entrance. Clark said he'd go along with him to park the car, wanting to give Bruce and Dick a few minutes alone together. The billionaire had practically run to the seventh floor, taking the stairs when the elevators proved packed with Sunday visitors. Emerging in the ICU, he had stridden to the desk and handed over the writ, only to be told by the nurse on duty that Dick couldn't be seen.

"Sir," the woman said, taking a deep breath. "I'm aware of all of the legalities."

"Then why won't you let me see him, damn it?!"

"You are welcome to see him-"

"_Finally_."

"-just as soon as he comes out of surgery."

The floor dropped out from under his feet. "…What?" he whispered harshly. _Surgery? __Again__? Why?!_

"Mr. Wayne, why don't you sit down?" The nurse asked, her voice gentling as she came around the desk to guide him to a chair. "You're very pale." He allowed himself to be led to a bank of seats, and perched on the edge of one.

"Why is he in surgery? He already _had_ surgery."

"They had to go in again. He developed an abscess as an aftereffect of the peritonitis. It's not uncommon," she assured him. "We were watching for just such a problem to arise, especially when his fever didn't relent. They took him downstairs about an hour ago."

"Who's operating?" he asked, a lance of suspicion going through him. _If there's a surgeon here tied to Erwin and Pezzoli the way Thackeray was, God only knows what they're actually doing to him._

"Dr. Montoya was called in. She brought in an outside assistant, a Dr. Thompkins, I believe."

A great deal of his stress eased. "You're _certain_ Dr. Montoya and Dr. Thompkins are the ones working on him?"

"Yes, sir. Dr. Montoya wasn't even the one on call, but Richard insisted on her. He became very distraught when he learned a different surgeon was preparing to take care of him, to the point that we deemed it safer to just call Dr. Montoya."

"When is the soonest I can see him?"

"After the surgery is complete they'll take him into recovery to let the anesthesia wear off. He'll be brought back up here after that, and once we've got him settled in his room you can go in."

"There's no way to see him in recovery?" He would have scrubbed and gone into the OR if he could, although the thought of seeing him laid open under hospital lights was far from appealing.

"I'm afraid that takes special permission from the surgeon. Given the circumstances, though, I'll call down to the surgical unit and leave a message for Dr. Montoya that you're here and would like to be present during recovery. Is that all right?"

"Tell her not to leave him," he ordered. "Tell her I want either her or Dr. Thompkins with him at all times until I get there. Absolutely no exceptions."

"…I'll relay that too, Mr. Wayne," the nurse agreed, giving him a strange look as she got up. "If you'd like coffee or anything, please let me know."

"Thank you." He dropped his face into his hands once she'd gone back to her desk and busied herself on the phone. He didn't look up as two sets of footsteps approached.

"Master Wayne?"

"Bruce?"

Both voices carried a resounding note of fear, instigated by his posture and the fact that he was out in the waiting area rather than in one of the rooms. Taking a deep breath, he raised his head. "They're operating again. We can't see him until they're done."

"…An abscess, sir?" Alfred guessed, shifting the box reclaimed from Henry Erwin in his arms.

"Yeah." He slumped against the back of the chair, feeling as if he had aged ten years in the past seven days. "Leslie and Dr. Montoya are taking care of it."

"I'm sure he'll be fine with both of them working on him, Master Wayne. We certainly know Dr. Thompkins will do everything in her power to get him back on his feet, and Dr. Montoya has proved herself to be very dependable as well," the butler pointed out. Seeing that his words didn't make a difference, his mouth tightened imperceptibly. "Shall I get you some coffee, sir?"

"No, Alfred. Thanks."

"Mr. Kent?"

"Don't do it, Clark. It's more automotive sludge than coffee."

"…I think I'm good, but thanks anyway." He took a seat as Alfred nodded once and made his way to the reception desk. "We're getting there," he reminded him.

"I know."

"Another few hours at the most, Bruce, and it will be over."

"Stop reminding me that I have to wait. You're not helping." _Besides, just because I get to see him doesn't mean it's over. Dick and I still have a couple of very long conversations to have, primarily about him not saying anything when he's in pain and about where in the hell he got the idea that he's a coward._ The second topic bothered him the most because he feared that something he had inadvertently done or said may have planted the thought in the teen's mind.

"…Sorry."

A few moments later Alfred returned. "I'm just going to go unpack a few things, Master Wayne. The nurse informed me that we can wait in his room, if we'd like."

"I'd rather be out here in case I can get permission to see him in recovery," Bruce shook his head. "…I do want something out of there, though, before you unpack it." Taking the box from the butler, he rifled through it briefly and removed a worn leather volume. "Thanks."

"Certainly, sir."

Ignoring Clark, who was staring at the floor and appeared to be deep in thought, Bruce began to flip through the book, stopping to examine certain passages. He recalled the first time he'd read it, and wondered how Dick was getting along with it. _Even just knowing what page he's on would be helpful_,he groused. It had been several years since he'd really sat down and studied the work the way he'd asked the boy to do, and he realized that he had forgotten how deeply some of the sayings and stories resounded with him. He read for some time, then turned a page and came across a particular line:

_ It is said that even with an adopted child, if you teach him continually so that he will resemble you, he surely will._

His eyes remained locked on that single sentence as he swallowed heavily. Had those words struck so close to home the last time he had read them? He doubted it, recalling that he hadn't had Dick the last time he'd opened the work. _Has he come across this part yet? _he pondered. Standing, he made his way to the nurse's station. "Do you have a piece of paper?"

"…Will a sticky note do?" she asked, offering him a pad of them. He took two, using one to mark the edge of the page so Dick would find it and placing the other over the passage, intending to leave a note for him. Before he could write anything, however, the nurse continued. "I just heard from Dr. Montoya, too. She said if you want to head down to recovery, she can let you in to see him in about ten minutes."

"Thank you," he said before turning away and returning to where Clark was sitting, watching him. "I'm going down to recovery. Do you want to come?" Normally he wouldn't have asked, but he knew he owed a portion of the credit for the successful capture of Henry Erwin to Clark, and offering to let him be the second person to see Dick seemed an appropriate expression of gratitude.

It was an unusually magnanimous offer, coming as it was from Bruce Wayne, but as much as the Kryptonian wanted to see the boy he passed. "I'll wait here. They'll bring him up soon enough. You go ahead." It didn't seem right for him to impose himself on the first non-secret time together that they'd had in a week.

"…Okay," he shrugged, secretly happy that the other man had opted to stay upstairs. "Let Alfred know where I've gone, would you?" he called back from the elevator.

"I will. And Bruce?" He grinned. "Try not to crush the poor kid with your first hug."


	23. Chapter 23

"Leslie," he greeted as she stepped out of the recovery ward and into his path. "Is Dick going to be all right?"

"He will be so long as you start calling a doctor when he gets hurt," she lectured, coming to a halt and crossing her arms.

"I would have called you if I'd known," he told her, carrying forward with the story he'd given Dr. Montoya due to their location.

"I'm sure you would have," she acceded, shaking her head as she recognized his caution. "We'll talk about it some other time." Patting his arm briefly, she went on. "For now, there's a certain young man in there who hasn't stopped asking for you for seven days running. I'm afraid that if you don't go see him he'll get out of bed and mount a search when he wakes up." She smiled. "He should be about out of the woods now, Bruce. So long as his fever goes down and he doesn't cook up another abscess, Lorraine will probably release him in a couple of days. Personally I'd keep him here until the stitches came out, but then I know what you two get up to when left to your own devices better than she does."

"Thank you for coming with her." _God, I've had to thank a lot of people today._

"I'll send you the bill," she winked. Her phone beeped needily, drawing a sigh. "That will be the clinic. I'd love to stay and talk, but we both have more important things to do. You," she said forcefully, "take care of that boy."

"I will, Leslie."

"…I know." With a last, tiny smile, she walked away.

Bruce wasted no time pushing through the double doors. The nurse at the desk recognized him immediately and pointed to the left without having to be asked. Three rooms down, he found them. "Dr. Montoya?"

She turned from where she was making notes on Dick's chart and gave him a wide smile. "Hello, Mr. Wayne. You can come in. He's still out, but he should start to come up soon."

"How is he?" he asked, going straight to the bed. The presence of an oxygen mask disturbed him, and he flicked his eyes to the surgeon questioningly.

"Just procedure," she assured. "We crank the O2 levels up to help clear the anesthetics out a little faster. It cuts down on post-operative vomiting, which we really want to avoid in his case, with the lacerations in his lip still healing."

He winced as he located the black sutures under the clear plastic of the mask. They'd been difficult to see in the shadowed patient room two nights earlier, but the fluorescents made them stand out angrily. "Is that going to scar? Where he went through his lip?"

"Unfortunately he moved his jaw when he bit down, so the wound is more of a tear than a puncture. I stitched it as best I could, but there will probably be some scarring. It will fade significantly with time, though. In a couple of years he'll have to point it out to anyone who doesn't already know it's there."

Bruce frowned, reaching out to brush a few strands of hair back from the teen's forehead. "He's awfully warm," he stated, feeling heat seep into his palm.

"Compared to where he was when they prepped him, his fever's gone down precipitously. He's still at about 101, but I expect that will continue to drop overnight. We cleaned him out very thoroughly, so the odds of another abscess are slim."

"…When can I take him home?"

"Once his fever's down and I can see that he's managing some basic foods without problems, I'll release him. A few days, most likely, unless there's another complication. Which I don't expect there will be," she added quickly when his head shot up. "If you don't mind my asking, did the judge throw out Erwin's case?" she queried.

"More or less," he replied, all but sitting on the edge of the bed in his effort to be as close to the still-unconscious Dick as possible.

"Good." She shook her head. "I never liked the man, but the idea that he would do the things the police are saying he's confessed to…it's horrifying. Some of his cases were my patients. I hope they were among those that were found last night. If one of my kids had been taken…ugh. I don't even want to think about it." Seeing that the man was far too busy stroking the cheek and arm of his sleeping child to have heard anything she said, she suddenly felt like an intruder. "I'll just leave you two. If you need something, push the call button. I'll come running."

"Thanks," he said distantly, barely noticing the difference once she'd gone. Several silent minutes passed before Dick shifted, a tiny twitch of his fingers under Bruce's that repeated itself before becoming a loose grip. He tried to whisper something, his face pinching when the oxygen mask rubbed his swollen mouth. "Hush," the billionaire crooned. "I'm right here. Don't talk, you don't have to talk. I won't go anywhere, I promise."

His expression relaxed, and for a while it seemed as if he'd slipped back into slumber. Then the same exchange – a few small grasps, an attempt at speech, and quiet reassurance – occurred again, and a third time. Bruce waited with unnatural patience, reiterating his gentle mantra until the cool digits beneath his hand managed a legitimate hold. The teen's eyes opened and met his own. "Hey, chum," he breathed, squeezing his fingers as he hovered over him. _Oh, god, how I missed you._

A flash of annoyance across his features made Bruce realize that he was trying to speak again. "Do you want me to take the mask off?" he asked. Receiving a small nod, he carefully pulled it away, flinching when it tried to stick to the inflamed area at the top of his chin. "There. Better?" Another little head movement told him that it was. "You tell me if you want it back. Dr. Montoya said it would help keep you from feeling sick."

"…'Kay."

"You don't have to talk, Dick."

"…'Kay."

He laughed. "You're impossible," he whispered lovingly, bending down to press their foreheads together. Dick gave him a half-grin, but it sobered quickly. "Feeling rough? Do you want the mask back?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm okay. Just…" his voice dropped into inaudible mumbling.

"Just what?"

"…mad at me?"

"_No,"_ he answered forcefully. He had fervently hoped that that wouldn't be the first thing that came out of his son's mouth, but since the topic had been broached he determined to make his side of things clear. "I'm not mad, disappointed, ashamed, or anything else like that that you can think of. Not at you. Dick, I…I'm so proud of you. Not just in this case, but in general. I don't tell you that enough, I know, but…you need to know that I am. Even when I don't say it, I am." They were hard words for the normally reserved man to utter, but the bright flash of joy they brought to the teen's gaze made it more than worth the effort.

"You're probably gonna have to tell me again later. Drugs and stuff. Sorry."

"It's okay." _I'll get over myself enough to say it every day, if that's what you really need._ "And Dick?"

"Mm-hm…?" He was slipping back into sleep, still dragging from the anesthetics and the exhaustion that came with having a nasty fever flanked by two surgeries.

"You are _not_ a coward," he told him fiercely. "Don't _ever_ think of yourself like that."

"Mmkay, Bruce…Bruce?" He forced his eyes open, searching until they found the matching set. "Glad you're here."

"I am too, son. Go to sleep."

"…Stay?"

"Of course." He did, holding his hand until he knew the boy was asleep again. Even then, he only released it long enough to retrieve a chair from along the wall so that he could sit. His free hand pulled the book back out of his jacket pocket and held it open to the blank sticky note, a pen at the ready. Then he was stuck, unable to think of anything short enough to fit on the paper that would properly relay how he felt about the intended reader. He sat there, considering, raising his head from the page roughly every ten minutes when Dick stirred and looked around for him. As soon as he ascertained that Bruce was still beside him, he fell back and dozed again, leaving the man to his quandary. Shortly after the fifth round of this, Dr. Montoya came back in.

"Has he woken up?" she asked.

"Yes. Several times."

"He wasn't sick, was he?"

"No. He asked for the mask to come off, though, so I removed it."

"Good." She checked a couple of numbers on the surrounding machinery, noted them down, then leaned into the hall and snagged a passing nurse. "Okay. I think we'll go ahead and move him back upstairs. I assume you'll be joining him in his room, Mr. Wayne?"

Snapping the still unannotated volume shut and tucking it away again, he stood. "Joining him? No. I'm not planning on leaving his side."


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: It's two-fer Tuesday again! Happy reading. :)**

It took Bruce almost another week to figure out what to write, but when he did, it was perfect.

He'd kept true to his promise of not removing himself from Dick's side, managing to cajole Dr. Montoya into allowing him to stay at the hospital for the three nights that passed before she released him. Taking pity on him after one of the nurses found him asleep in the hard plastic chairs left in the rooms for visitors, she'd even ordered that a spare bed be pulled in so he could rest without cricking his neck.

Clark had returned home late Sunday night, but not before getting in a quick visit with the still-groggy teen. It had been obvious that Dick was happy to see him despite his slightly out of it mental state, and a wicked smirk had appeared on his face when the Kryptonian tasked him with an important duty. "Keep Bruce in line for me," he had winked after giving the boy a farewell hug.

"Pretty sure he could kick my butt right now, but I'll try," Dick had jested back.

"I could do so at any time, not just now," Bruce glowered, giving Clark a look.

"Maybe for a little while longer," the visitor conceded. "I wouldn't count on that state of affairs lasting, though." He had happened to glance at a few of the cowl videos from recent fights that were archived in the cave's computers, and had been impressed by what he saw every time Batman glanced up to check on his partner. Watching him, a germ of an idea had taken root in the back of his mind, something he thought Robin would be perfect for. Batman would probably have a conniption fit when he made the suggestion, but why _shouldn't_ the young protégés of the JLA members have an organization of their own? Besides, Robin would love it, especially when he learned that Superman had hand-picked him to lead the team. It still needed to be run by a few other people before he brought the idea up to either of the Dynamic Duo, but he couldn't imagine anyone other than Batman objecting, and a few days of puppy-eyed pouting from Robin would overcome that.

"Clark," the billionaire had growled from where he stood at the head of the bed, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Yes, Bruce?" Total innocence.

"Go away. Now."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm going, I'm going. Dick, you know my number if he gets out of hand." Exchanging a final conspiratorial smile with the teen, he'd left them alone.

Alfred, knowing full well that the furthest Bruce would consent to go from the boy during daylight hours was the bathroom, carried three meals a day from the manor, adding a bowl of chicken broth on the final evening when Dr. Montoya said Dick could try light colored liquids if he felt ready. He'd devoured it with a little moan of delight and promptly fallen asleep, the content smile on his face melting the reserve of both men.

"I was thinking of taking a vacation this summer, Alfred," Bruce had shared as they watched him.

"Really, sir?" The butler had been truly shocked by the revelation; the other man griped enough as it was about the few days a year he had to travel for Wayne Enterprises business, hating to leave Gotham without her vigilante protector. For him to have stayed over in the hospital had come as a pleasant surprise to the Englishman, who had assumed that he would resume his cowl as soon as he was assured of Dick's recovery. The city had even cooperated, her criminals staying fairly quiet in the days immediately following the discovery of Pezzoli's pedophilia ring.

Bruce wondered about that. As he'd suspected it would, news of what exactly had been done to Henry Erwin had gotten out, and the base animalism of Batman's retribution had overwritten anything positive that had been said about him in the first wake of the scandal. The idea that the majority of Gotham's underworld was lying low to avoid a similar near-death experience wasn't far-fetched, he decided finally, so long as one didn't factor in the truly crazy. He had no explanation for _their_ silence, but managed to be grateful for it anyway.

"Nothing too long," he'd explained. "Maybe just a four day weekend. There's a beach up north – I don't know what it's called, just where it is – that has this purplish sand. Dick and I went there once, and I know he always wanted to go back. Maybe there's a house nearby we can rent." Part of him loathed the idea of returning to the place where his horridly vivid nightmare had been set, but they'd been so happy there…it seemed silly to him to let a bad dream destroy a place that had brought such joy, if only for a single hour.

"I'll look into it, Master Wayne. I'm sure Master Dick will be delighted."

"Yeah. Me, too." Alfred had looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide if he meant that he was sure Master Dick would love the idea or that he was also excited to take the trip. In the end he opined that it didn't really matter which way the words had been intended; the mere fact that he was willing to take a few days away from the city just to spend with the boy was enough for the butler.

Then, suddenly, they had all been home. Dick was still more or less bedridden, having been given strict orders before leaving the hospital not to go any further than the bathroom under his own power. He'd wrinkled his nose at that, but had been completely crestfallen at the news that he was to do absolutely no lifting, running, or other strenuous activity for at least six weeks. Bruce's first words once he'd settled in next to him in the car had been the suggestion that he spend the time when he wasn't catching up on homework and studying down in the cave, doing background research and listening to the police band for potential action that Batman could pursue in the evenings. That, at least, had cheered him up, along with the promise he extracted to be told more about the side of the Erwin case that they hadn't been able to discuss in the hospital. Happy to know that he would still be able to help, even if he could only do so from inside the cave, he'd leaned against Bruce's shoulder and closed his eyes, falling asleep as he felt the man's arm wrap around him and pull him close.

For three more days Bruce had managed to avoid going into the sordid details that he and Clark had uncovered. It had been easier than he thought it would be; Dick was still sleeping a good portion of the day, and most of the time that he happened to be awake was taken up by Alfred trying to get him to eat more, clucking about his having lost weight after nearly ten days on intravenous nutrients. When the subject of Erwin was brought up – always by Dick – he brushed it aside, saying that it was too long of a story for just then or that the boy looked tired. Stalling gave Bruce much-needed time to figure out how much he could get away with _not_ telling him about Erwin's plans. By the end of the work week, he felt almost ready to tackle the subject and any questions that might come out of the discussion.

What he hadn't anticipated was that by Friday afternoon the teen was restless, and begged Alfred to let him go down to the cave until Bruce got home. The butler had conceded, but on strict conditions; he would have to go down in a wheelchair, he would have to stay in said chair, and he was forbidden to wear any fewer than three blankets, his robe, and the warmest slippers Alfred could dig up for the duration of his visit to the drafty Batman command center. Dick had agreed immediately, willing to put up with just about anything that would get him out of bed.

Once downstairs and alone in front of a computer, he went straight to the Batcave network history, wanting to know exactly what Bruce and Clark had discovered during their investigation of Erwin. He knew what the news and the papers were saying, and Bruce had said he would fill him in on the rest, but the taciturn attitude the man had displayed since making that promise was a dead giveaway that he wouldn't be getting the whole story from that quarter. With that realization, he determined to take matters into his own hands.

He went through the files in the same order the men had, wanting to learn what they had while also trying to reconstruct Bruce's research techniques. When he read the name of the guard who had attacked him, he snorted. _Lejaune? That's hilarious. Of course his name is yellow, the snake hit me and then ran like there was no tomorrow. _

His good mood didn't last long. He had to play his interview with Erwin several times before he was sure that it was really himself talking, and once he was convinced of that fact a wash of guilt flooded him. _They played this in court,_ he reminded himself. _All those things I said, Bruce heard them for the first time in front of other people, in front of that asshole Erwin. _The fact that he'd been drugged and half-deluded from fever didn't matter; he knew that the words must have stung, especially with the way Erwin twisted them around.

The next audio file, the telephone conversation between Erwin and Pezzoli, turned his stomach. _He wanted to rape me. His whole purpose was to rape me and sell me to Pezzoli so I could be raped by other people, just like he did with all those kids he took before. _He had to stop for a few minutes to collect himself before clicking on the last icon in the list, a cowl camera recording that Batman had taken on Saturday night. He watched with wide eyes as Henry Erwin condemned himself, suddenly understanding why the vigilante had left the former CPS agent in the condition he had. _…It was more than rape,_ he thought dully. _This guy wanted to take his time and just…__destroy__ me. For no reason. _By the end of the clip he was shaking violently, and that was how Bruce found him.

"Dick!" he said sharply, rushing from the bottom of the stairs. Pulling him around from the computer, he knelt in front of him and took his hands. "Dick, what's wrong?" When his only response was a horrified stare, he raised his voice. "Answer me, damn it!"

"Bruce…he wanted to…I don't…why?"

The billionaire's eyes slid away from his son's and onto the screen behind him. "…Oh, Dick," he whispered, voice heavy with despair. "You didn't go through all of those files, did you?"

"I…yeah."

"Why? I said we would talk about it."

"I knew you were going to try and hide something. I wanted to know everything, but…now I kind of wish I'd just let you lie to me." A pair of tears escaped and fled down his cheeks.

"Okay," he breathed, clasping his hands tightly. "Okay. It's okay. He can't get to you now. He'll _never_ be able to do those things to you, Dick. I promise."

"I know, but…who comes up with stuff like that, Bruce?"

"You know there are crazy people out there. At least I really hope you do, by now. He's a sick, nasty son of a bitch, but his days of…raping children," he choked, "are done."

"…I'm surprised Batman didn't kill him," Dick said quietly, his chills slackening as warmth from the hands holding his traveled up his arms.

Bruce's gaze snapped back to his face. "I am, too. It was exceedingly difficult not to," he confessed. "You have no idea how hard it was, after the way we found him."

"The way you found him?"

He could have kicked himself. Of course he wouldn't have known about that part, it had occurred before he turned the camera on. "I don't think you need any more details than you've already got," he said firmly. "Your hands are freezing. You should be in bed, you're still recovering."

"Bruce, _wait,_" Dick snapped, grabbing his wrist as he tried to stand. "I already know everything else. Just tell me." When the man glared, he went on. "I know I said I kind of wish I'd let you lie to me, but…maybe it's a good thing I found out about all of this."

"What?!"

"It's a reminder of what you said before, that there are some really terrible people in the world. I already knew that, but it doesn't hurt to have it reinforced sometimes; it just makes you more cautious. Plus…wouldn't you agree that having all the information will make for better profiling in case we run into someone like him again?"

A hard shudder ran through him at the thought, tailed by a surge of disbelief. _ A minute ago he was practically in shock, and now he's concerned about being able to accurately profile the next sex maniac he encounters. My god, what have I done to him?_ "Dick, no."

"Bruce, _tell me_. You never know, it could save my life someday."

He knew all the right buttons to push, to say the least. Swallowing heavily against a suddenly dry throat, Bruce looked away. "He had a file full of pictures. Pictures of you." He faltered.

"…And?" the teen pressed.

"…And he was masturbating to them. That's what he was doing when we found him."

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, letting his hand slide back down to Bruce's and squeeze. "Thank you for telling me that."

"Don't thank me. I already regret it."

"I guess what I meant was, thank you for not treating me like a child. And…thank you for not killing him."

"I should have."

"No!" Dick shot a very passable version of the Batglare at him. "You would have been killing yourself right along with him, Bruce. I don't ever want that to happen, and I sure as hell don't want to be the reason behind it if it does."

"Dick…" _It would have been worth it, for you._ "You're cold," he said instead. "We need to get you back to bed before Alfred murders us both. There's nothing more of note to tell you about Erwin," he added when a rebellious shadow danced across his son's face. "You know everything I do about it now. If I think of anything else that you might not have figured out yourself, I'll mention it. Okay?"

"Your track record of keeping promises isn't so hot, Bruce. Are you _really_ going to tell me, or are you just saying that to get me to shut up?"

"…Is this what happens when they take your appendix out, you become ornery? Because I'm not a fan."

"I don't know. Maybe it was a latent condition, honed by years of watching you, that's finally decided to express itself."

He couldn't fully suppress his smile at that. "I'll tell you, Dick. But I think you really do know just about everything there is to know about it."

"…All right. Then I guess I can consent to being put back in prison."

"Your bed is not a prison."

"Yeah? Say that after you've laid around for two weeks."

"Point taken," he sighed, and pushed him to the elevator. Tucking the blankets around him upstairs a few minutes later, he saw the question in his eyes. "What?"

"You drugged him, didn't you? Erwin."

"…Yes."

"You used the same stuff he drugged me with."

"How do you know that?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

"He had the same voice cadence as I did in my interview. Plus, at one point he seemed to kind of snap out of it, and then it was like he slipped back into a trance. Did you give him another dose off screen to keep him talking?"

"I did. I have the ring he used on you in the cave. I've been trying to break down the serum to determine its exact chemical makeup."

"That could be useful stuff, in the hands of not-creeps." He yawned.

"Maybe tomorrow we can run some tests together. See what we turn up."

"Cool!"

"But first," Bruce amended, "we still have a few things to talk about. Since you seem to have enough energy to poke around in files and conduct experiments, there's no excuse for putting our discussion off any longer."

Dick had almost managed to forget that he was probably in trouble for not saying anything about being in pain, let alone for dancing so close to the truth about Batman and Robin in his interview with Erwin. He moved to bite at his lip, remembering just in time and pulling back. "…Okay," he agreed hesitantly, looking away.

Bruce levered his face back, forcing him to look at him. "You aren't in trouble," he told him. "I think you've had enough punishment for not saying anything about the fact that you were hurting. But there are a couple of items that I want to make sure we're clear on. All right?"

"Sure," he nodded, feeling better as he yawned again.

"Take a nap. I'll have Alfred bring your dinner up later."

"Could you bring it? I mean, I love Alfred, but he's practically been force feeding me since I got home."

He smiled, all too familiar with the butler's penchant for shoving calories down his charges' throats when he knew they were under the weather. "Sure. I'll carry it up tonight."

"Thanks, Bruce." His eyes shut and his breathing evened, but Bruce didn't move from his side. Watching him, his mind replayed the conversation they'd just had. _He picked up on the fact that Erwin was drugged; none of the trained adults who have access to both their interviews have caught that. He focused on the good things he could do with awful information immediately; I know it got to him, and he'll probably have more than one nightmare about it, but he turned it around so quickly from a potentially handicapping discovery to a new tool he could use to bring other bad people down. What's more, he's reading me so well anymore that I couldn't even hide the fact that I was preparing to keep information from him. He read it even through his pain meds. _He paused, and a little chuckle escaped him. _His glare's getting pretty damn good, too._

Dropping a soft kiss on the teen's hair, he stood and slipped out, heading for his study. Retrieving the book from his jacket, he leaned over the desk just long enough to pull out the sticky note that had mocked him for six days. It wouldn't be enough room, he knew now, for what he wanted to say, so he replaced it with a single piece of heavy stationery. Taking care to copy the sentence that had marked his epiphany exactly, he slowly penned his own thoughts below it.

He read the note over once, briefly, before folding it into quarters and tucking it between the pages. He'd take it up with the boy's dinner and leave it unobtrusively on his nightstand, right where he'd found it. Then he would wait. Maybe it would be mentioned tomorrow, or the next day, or in ten years. Maybe it would never be brought up. It didn't matter. All he cared about was that his son knew what a privilege it was to share a life with him.


	25. Chapter 25

Dick jerked awake, his teeth grinding together to keep his cry contained. _That was awful_, he moaned to himself, the last moments of the nightmare replaying in his mind over and over again. He'd been drowning, water rushing down his throat and into his lungs as something clenched around his middle dragged him under for the last time. The last thing he had heard was Bruce's voice, screaming his name desperately. His final vision had been a silhouette of his own hand, floating above him in the water but looking strangely wrong. _Why didn't I have any fingers?_ he wondered, realizing after a moment's thought what had been off about the limb. _God, that was creepy. Still, at least it wasn't about Erwin._

He rolled onto his side and curled carefully into the fetal position, staring towards the window and trying to convince himself that the nightmare was over. The house was quiet, more silent than an old place like the manor should have been, and in the noiselessness he heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime three times. _Ugh. I'll never get back to sleep now._ _Crap._ He reached for the bedside lamp, hoping that a little light would help chase the demons away, and his hand brushed against leather. "What the hell?" he asked plaintively, turning the switch and flinching back from the sudden brightness.

Seeing that it was Bruce's book, he regarded it warily. He knew it hadn't been there before he'd eaten and fallen asleep, because _nothing_ had been there; Alfred had just cleared the nightstand off that afternoon, saying that he might find he wanted the space as he spent more time awake but still confined to his bed. Still, it was easy to believe that Bruce might have put it there last night, maybe as a reminder that he was supposed to have read it months ago. What disturbed him more than its sudden reappearance was the fact that the last time he'd picked it up it had convinced him that he was a miserable coward. Even factoring in the fever he'd been laboring under at the time didn't completely ease the unsettled feeling it gave him. "Oh, come on," he whispered finally. "Now you're letting it _make_ you a coward. It's just a book, doofus."

Chiding himself, he picked it up and opened it, flipping forward a few pages from where he'd stopped reading so he wouldn't have to look at the 'cowardice grass' story again. As he had before, he swiftly lost himself in it, disagreeing with certain parts and falling in love with others. He tried to guess what Bruce would say about some of it, and wondered how closely their views would turn out to correlate. Just as his eyes were beginning to feel heavy again, he turned a page and found a piece of quartered paper pressed down into the binding so it wouldn't fall out. _Maybe I shouldn't look at this,_ he considered. _It might be something personal of Bruce's._ Examining the still-folded sheet, though, he shook his head. _No, this is new paper. The creased edges aren't even sharp yet._ Well, fine then, he'd open it. If it wasn't meant for his eyes, he could always return it with an apology.

"_It is said that even with an adopted child, if you teach him continually so that he will resemble you, he surely will."_

He stopped reading, sucking in a breath. _This is Bruce's handwriting._ His eyes flicked between the sheet in his hand and the type on the book's page, matching word to word, before he continued his perusal.

_Dick,_

_ I have read the Hagakure many times, and found wisdom and truth in a number of its passages. Six years ago, I was given the opportunity to walk a path that has shown me that the saying above is the truest of them all._

_ I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to make that journey with __you__, and I cannot wait to see where the path takes us next._

_ -Bruce_

His mouth hung open until he'd finished the note for a third time. "Wow," he murmured, guessing correctly that he was holding the tenderest thing ever spawned by Bruce Wayne's pen. Closing the book but keeping the letter in his hand, he stretched out on his back and stared at the ceiling, tears streaming from his eyes. Before he realized what was happening, he had cried himself to sleep, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion behind those three simple sentences.

Alfred's pointed rattling of a lid against a tray pulled him from his dreamless slumber some six hours later. Blinking in the light that filled the room, he felt the single page still tweezed between his fingers and smiled. Seeing that the butler's back was turned to him, he reached over and placed the sheet securely in the book before saying good morning. Under normal circumstances, the idea of hiding something from Alfred wouldn't have occurred to him, especially seeing as how the Englishman found out everything sooner or later. Under normal circumstances, though, Bruce didn't leave him notes that took sixty eight words to say 'I love you.' Dick wanted to keep that special message between the two of them for as long as possible. He knew it wouldn't last, but he was hoping to at least have time to construct an adequate response before anyone else knew.

He ate ravenously, completely cleaning his plate and earning a pleased look from Alfred as a result. Requesting his calculus book before he was left alone again, he pretended to study for a while, then gave up on trying to think about l'Hopital's Rule and picked the Hagakure back up. _I got pretty far earlier. Maybe I can finish it before Bruce wants to talk._

Around one o'clock the man sauntered in, not bothering to knock. "Jeez, Bruce, is privacy even a thing to you?" Dick asked jokingly, not looking up from his re-reading of a few favorite parts. "What if I'd been doing something you didn't want to see?"

He paused, one eyebrow quirking. "I would think that would be extremely painful with stitches."

"You're probably right." He snapped the book shut. "Finished," he announced, setting it back on the nightstand. He was hoping Bruce would take it back now, not because he hadn't enjoyed it or didn't want more time with it but because he had tucked the note meant for him safely away and replaced it with one of his own.

"I thought Alfred said you were studying," the billionaire frowned, sitting on the bed and purposefully not bringing up the letter he'd written the night before. _If Dick wants to talk about it, we will._

"I was studying. Just not calculus."

"Your schoolwork is important, Dick. Just because you're getting to miss the last couple weeks of class and take your finals at home with Alfred proctoring doesn't mean you don't need to study."

"Like I said, I was. Besides, _more_ people should study that book. They should teach it in schools."

"Most fourteen year olds wouldn't get it, kiddo," he relented.

"But you figured I would?"

"Didn't you?"

He cocked his head to one side. "I don't know. I understood parts of it, but…I think there are some parts that none of us will ever really get, because we're so removed from the time and the place."

"That explanation in and of itself tells me that you got plenty out of it." The boy beamed. "Was there anything you disagreed with?" Bruce went on, already knowing the answer but enjoying the conversation.

"Uh, _yeah_. Mostly the mountains of dead extras that any director trying to make a movie out of it would need."

"Well, I guess I've done _something_ right, then."

"Ha, ha," Dick made a face at him. "You've done plenty more than that right."

"I think so," he agreed quietly. "So what else about the book?"

He struggled for any specific example besides the one on the tip of his tongue. "Mitsuse Genbei," he said finally, conceding victory to his traitorous brain. "That…that was a strange story."

"Mitsuse Genbei?" Bruce's face clouded as he tried to remember the particulars. "Wait...The story where the samurai has to commit seppuku because of a stomachache before a battle?"

"Stomachache, indigestion…appendicitis," the teen shrugged, blushing a little as he remembered the effect the tale had had on him. "Who knows what he had, right?"

The pieces fell into place, answering the question Bruce had been the most troubled by since he'd first heard Dick call himself a coward. "…Please tell me you didn't read that story right before we took you to the hospital," he begged.

"Um…it might have been one of the ones I looked at around that time."

"You took it seriously. Why would you take that seriously?"

"Bruce, I had a 104 degree fever! It seems really stupid now, I just…I dunno. It made sense at the time." Seeing that the man was utterly baffled, he went through his logic, telling him everything he could remember about the way his brain had reasoned out that his appendicitis had rendered him spineless.

"You know, until you explained that it really did sound absurd."

"…Does it not sound absurd anymore?" he asked, a slight note of concern entering his voice.

"It's still ridiculous, Dick, but I can see the logical steps you took to reach your conclusion. Your methodology was fine – exemplary, even - but the information you had to work with was faulty, mostly due to your fever. You know that you _aren't_ a coward, right?"

"I hope I'm not. I hope I never earn that name."

"You aren't, and you won't. People like Lejaune, they're cowards. You…you're the complete opposite of that." Bruce looked at him, face deadly serious. "A coward wouldn't spend evenings going out of his way to help other people; he wouldn't have fought Erwin, and his truth serum, so successfully; and he wouldn't have been able to push back everything else in order to give Batman much-needed information on a case that seemed to be going down the tubes. And if you ever doubt the fact that you are one of the bravest people I know, I want you to tell me immediately so we can set the record straight. Understood?"

"…Yes," he agreed, fidgeting in mild embarrassment even as joy at the praise he was being given filled him.

"Good." As he spoke, the billionaire slid further onto the bed, kicking his shoes off and crossing his legs to sit more comfortably. "So long as we're on the subject of telling me things, why didn't you say that you were in pain?"

"Okay," Dick took a deep breath. He'd known this question was coming, but despite the hours he'd spent preparing for it he was still nervous. "First off, I didn't really think it was anything worth worrying about. I thought at worst I was coming down with a stomach bug. I _did_ almost say something right before we went out on patrol, but…" he shrugged. "You'd already put the cowl on, and I didn't particularly want to get left at home."

"It got worse out in the field, though, didn't it?"

"Ooh, yeah. Way worse. But we were in the field, I wasn't going to say anything at that point unless I really couldn't take it anymore. I mean, sure I had to fight Pezzoli's thieves doubled over, but I still got them. Except Lejaune." His face darkened. "Stupid semi-fake hostage."

"…You thought I would be mad at you for saying something," Bruce deduced.

"Well…yeah. Especially once you told me we were waiting on the credit card heist. I wasn't going to say anything at that point no matter how bad it got because it would have blown the mission."

"Your health comes before the mission, Dick."

"Look, I didn't know it was going to get the way it did, and I didn't know we were going to be out as long as we were. Not complaining," he added, throwing up his hands, "I totally love spending all night jumping off of roofs with Batman. But you didn't tell me that we were doing anything more than a basic patrol. If I'd known there was a late case involved, I might have said something earlier." They were silent for a moment. "…I'm totally grounded, aren't I?" he asked sadly, seeing Bruce's disappointed look.

"No. You're not."

"Really?"

"I said last night that you've been punished enough for not saying anything, didn't I?"

"Well, yeah, but…I broke the rules. And you looked upset a second ago."

"Did you learn anything from breaking the rules?"

"Yeah. Freaking say something, even if I think it's just Alfred's curry or the flu and even if you've already masked up."

"Good. And any look I had was directed at myself, not at you. I realize that I bear a fair amount of responsibility for everything that's happened."

"…How do you figure that?"

"Several ways. First, I noticed your discomfort before we left, but chose not to push you on it. I should have; you gasped, and you don't evince pain without pretty serious cause. Second, I should have briefed you on the credit card heist before we left the cave. If something had happened that required me to go elsewhere and leave you to take care of it, there might not have been time to give you all of the information you needed. Third – and this was after the fact – I should have called Leslie out to look at you after you got hit."

"You had no way of knowing that my appendix had taken one for the team."

"No, but even with that aside, you took a hard blow to the abdomen and were obviously in pain. Remember, I thought you were bleeding internally when I found you. Regardless of the fact that it was just your lip, I should have taken the cue from my initial suspicion and had you examined properly. If you _had_ been bleeding internally when I sent you to bed, you might have never woken up. And that would have been entirely my doing."

"…That was an awful lot of guilt you dumped on yourself just now," the teen pointed out. "You know, there's a line in here…" he snatched the book back up and thumbed through it. "Oh, here we go; 'a man who has never once erred is dangerous.' Now I know you've read that one like a billion times, I mean, at least once for every mistake, right?" he teased, ducking slightly when Bruce mock-punched at his shoulder. "So what's with the guilt trip? You feeling okay? Sure you didn't catch my fever?"

He sighed heavily and smiled, shaking his head. "I caught your fever about five seconds after I met you, Dick, and I stopped wanting to get over it a long time ago. You seem to have that effect on people."

"So what, I'm like a charismatic Typhoid Mary?"

"Something like that," Bruce laughed. "As charming as you can be, though, we need to figure out a good story for you to tell the judge about the hit you took."

"I've been working on that." He straightened, putting on a serious face. "Your Honor, a couple of bullies –older kids, not from my school - cornered me after class on Friday, while I was walking to where Alfred always picks me up. They started calling me names and trying to get me to fight them. I refused, on account of Bruce always tells me not to get into brawls." His eyes gleamed in amusement as he tried to picture Batman telling Robin to avoid getting into fights. "One of them pulled out this makeshift cudgel he was carrying and smacked me with it. I screamed, and they freaked out and ran off. I didn't tell Bruce because I didn't want him to be ashamed that I hadn't stood up for myself, even though he told me not to fight." He dropped his act and waited for a reaction. "Think that will work?"

"It fits with what Alfred and I said, which was namely that we didn't know you were hurt until we found you curled up in bed. And if you can't identify the kids who did it, they can't try to take it much further."

"I think I'm going to have to tell him that Erwin drugged me, though. I can't think of a way to explain the 'partners' thing otherwise. I'm afraid that telling them that and letting them think I was being led on will throw doubt on what Erwin said to Batman, though. Once they know I was drugged it won't take them long to realize that he was, too. I don't want to threaten the evidence you gathered."

"There's a better solution to that problem than just telling Leavering about the drugging," he said, shaking his head. "I told him that I'd been filling your head up with the idea of coming in as my full business partner after you finish college. I also told them I'd been pushing you too hard on your schoolwork, and that that was what you probably meant by needing to stop."

"…Bruce, that's brilliant!" He paused. "…Did you…did you mean that first part?"

"About you becoming my full business partner after college?"

"Yeah. Do you…would you really want that?"

"…Yes. I would. But the important question is, would _you_?"

"It could be pretty awesome. The Dynamic Duo conquering the corporate world by day and stalking the streets of Gotham at night? Wicked."

"Well," Bruce allowed, "if that's still what you want at that point, we'll talk about it then. A lot can change in six or seven years," he added quietly, remembering his conversation with Clark as well as Alfred's more distant warnings that teenagers were strange, prevaricating creatures. Hell, if he needed a reminder of how much things could shift in that period of time, all he had to do was compare his life seven years earlier to his life today. He didn't want to get too excited over something that he couldn't predict with any accuracy whatsoever.

Dick, on the other hand, just grinned at him, happy to soak in the moment rather than worry about whether or not that imagined future would actually come to pass. "Wouldn't it be crazy if we got to take business trips together? Like we did that one time when we went to the beach with the purple sand? That was fun."

"…It was. You stopped talking about it a long time ago, though."

"You were busy, Bruce. I didn't want to make you feel guilty by harping on you about it. It's okay that we never went back. It's still a really great memory."

"It's funny that you mention it, actually. I was just saying something about it to Alfred the other day."

"Really? What?"

"Oh, I asked him to find out if there were any houses in that area that a person could rent for a long weekend. If they wanted to. You know, nothing huge, just enough room for, say, two or three people."

"…Wait, are you telling me that you're consenting to take a _vacation_?"

"I'm open to the possibility. Let's leave it at that for now."

"So when are we going?" Dick was practically bouncing.

"Hey, quit moving around so much. You'll tear something. Gotham Memorial's floors have enough new scuffs from my shoes." When the teen settled, still looking at him expectantly, he sighed and tipped his hand. "Mid-July. You should be healed enough by then."

"Epic! I wonder if they do deep-sea fishing near there?"

"I don't think you'll be _that_ healed. And why would you want to do that, anyway?"

"It could be fun. Besides, fish is good. Even _you_ like fish sometimes."

"What about seasickness? Or…falling in the ocean? Those boats are small, Dick. It sounds dangerous."

"…Really, Bruce? You let me fight crime in a spandex costume, but the idea that I might have to throw up in the water is too close to the edge for comfort?"

He opened his mouth to retort, but he had no response for that. "I'll consider it. But I don't think you'll be healed enough for it."

"So long as you're willing to think about it, I'm happy."

"…Deep sea fishing," Bruce muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Don't knock it till you try it."

"_Anyway_," he over rode him. "I also have news about Erwin."

Dick's happy smile erased itself, and Bruce felt like an idiot for bringing that name up just now. "Oh?"

"It's Pezzoli news, really. The police got one of his goons to talk. They know who was trying to, um…buy you."

"Oh…?"

"Does the name Lindsey Scott sound familiar?"

His eyes narrowed in confusion. "Wait…it's a woman?"

"No. It's a guy with a woman's name."

"I would remember if I'd ever met a guy named Lindsey."

"You've never actually met him, but I know you've heard of him before."

"Give me a minute, then." He thought. "…Not _Senator_ Scott? The one who likes to try and block everything even remotely related to WE?"

"That would be him."

"…He's a pedophile?"

"That's how it looks, yes. They raided his home this morning and found…well, they found a lot of damning evidence."

"Ugh. So…targeting me was more than just another notch in the bed frame, I'm guessing? He was trying to get to you on a personal level, too."

_Sometimes I regret your high level of intelligence, Dick,_ he thought but didn't say. "I think that's probably the case."

"Great. Now I'm a business liability, too."

"You are _not_ a liability, of any sort," Bruce snapped. Seeing the shocked look at his reaction, he softened. "Don't think of yourself like that."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I just…I don't know. Never mind." He looked away, picking at the comforter as if it were the most interesting thing he'd seen all day.

"Hey. Dicky?" Minding his lip, the billionaire pulled his face back towards him. "I wasn't angry at you."

"I know," he said softly. "I just hate it when I say things that upset you."

"It's not what you said. It's what they did."

"I know," he repeated. "But it still sucks."

"Yeah. It does. But it's over now."

"Mm." They realized at the same time that Dick had just made Batman's 'I disagree but I'm not going to argue about it' noise and laughed at one another.

"…You want to come down to the cave and help me with that serum?" Bruce asked when they had recovered. If they had to do something related to their recent problems, it might as well be something useful that the boy would enjoy. "There's plenty of time before dinner."

"Um…" He wanted to – he'd been looking forward to it since the night before, after all – but their long talk had been exhausting. "I'm actually a little tired," he admitted. "Do you mind…I mean, could we do it after dinner instead?"

"I have a function I have to go to this evening."

"Oh." Maybe he wasn't that tired, after all. "Well, I've got enough energy for a couple of tests, at least. Let's go." He threw the covers back and prepared to get up, but Bruce's hand on his knee stopped him. "What?" he asked.

"Don't get up." _How often do you do that?_ he pondered. _How often do you shove aside what you need or want, just to get a few extra minutes in with me? It's not right. _

"But I want to help you," Dick insisted, confused.

"You will. We'll do it together, tonight. But right now you need to rest."

"You have a thing to go to, though. You just said-"

"It's funny," Bruce stopped him. "I think I'm coming down with the flu. Amazing how stomach ills seem to hit this house all at once, isn't it?"

"…You're really not going to go?"

"I can't go to an ambassadorial reception ball with the flu. If the wrong person caught it from me I might cause an international incident. The last thing I need is to be investigated as a potential terrorist with access to biological weapons."

Dick laughed. "Because _that's_ the logical next step after embassy staff catch a bug off of a businessman. Then again, we elect pedophiles to Congress, so maybe it isn't so farfetched, huh?"

He stared at him in amazement. "…Are you already joking about that?" _How much more resilient can you possibly be?_

The teen shrugged. "Call it my coping method. Since I've already started bashing on the government, do you mind if I just jump right in and get a bright red mohawk, a lot of dark clothes and punk rock tees, and a nose ring?"

"Don't you think the nose ring will clash with the rest of your costume?" he bantered along.

"They come in different colors. I'll get something bright and flashy, with, I dunno, spikes on the ends. No one will even notice. Maybe I can even get Alfred to change the 'R' on my costume to an anarchy symbol."

"And after you make that request, just go ahead and sprout wings and flap your way north with the spring migration. I think by the time fall comes Alfred will have cooled down enough from your request to be able to be in the same township with you without his head exploding."

"Sure," Dick grinned. "I've always wanted to go to Canada. You think I'll fit in with the other robins?"

"Nope. You're much noisier than they are."

"Oh, well. Guess I'll just have to stay my normal, boring self, then. Thanks for ruining all the fun."

"Any time."

"It _is_ kind of your M.O."

Bruce blinked at him for a few seconds, retortless. "I thought you were tired," he said finally.

"I _am,_" Dick moaned, laying down and throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "You keep talking to me!"

"All right, point taken. I know when I'm not wanted." Tucking the covers in tightly around him, he noticed the small frown his words had drawn and flashed him a tiny smile to let him know it had been a joke. "Go to sleep. We'll get to work after dinner. _Only_ if you're up for it, though."

"I will be," Dick mumbled, already beginning to doze off. "Bruce," he added as the man stood.

"What?"

"Take the book with you. I'm done with it for right now. Might like to see it again some other time, though."

"…Sure," he agreed, picking the volume up from the nightstand before leaving the room. _Maybe he didn't even __get__ the note,_ he thought as he walked into his study, shutting the door behind himself. _I might have put it too far forward in the book. If he'd already read past that page, it's probably still in there. _Slipping his finger into a telltale gap, he touched folded paper and sighed. _He didn't even see it. Damn._ _I guess…I guess I should just remove it. _Setting the book on his desk, he let it fall open to the marked page, and the note slid partway out.

His eyes widened as they took in a single sheet of college-ruled notebook paper. _I'll be damned. He wrote me back._ Dropping into his chair, he slowly opened the letter and read:

_Bruce,_

_Six years ago, I no longer had a path. You were kind enough to take my hand and guide me along yours. I can never fully repay you for that, but I hope you'll let me spend my life trying to do justice to the examples you've set and the lessons you've taught anyway._

_-Dick_

_P.S. – I love you, too, you big dork._

He managed to get through it twice before he had to put it away, afraid of smearing the ink with his tears.

**Author's Note - Well, readers, this is the end. I did receive a request to expand on the beach trip premised in the last two chapters, and have begun working on a (quickly expanding) sequel to this story. Said sequel will involve plenty of fluff, Bruce on a small boat (just imagine his delight!), a little teenage romance, and a murder most foul. Despite the fact that I feel like I'm ripping off Dateline, it will be entitled "To Catch A Predator." Unlike this story and Dateline's project, there will be no pedophilia. I expect to have the first chapter up before the end of the week, and intend to update at my regular speed. I hope you'll be so kind as to read and review. **

**Thank you all for reading this little labor of love. I hope you enjoyed it. :) **


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